01/07

A Poem by Everett Dulin

it isn't a vision
my single foot between a waking void
teetering on the edges and the floors are mjssing
what a beautiful dream i'm in

shimmerings on my fingertips
shattered on any chrome surface
the creeping notion that the feint is slipping
I don't want to wake up yet

I just started living

what a wonderful dream it is
for a moment I could just look at my hands
looking upwards, bent over the edge
but I still saw my hands

the feint is slipping
when I wake up ill be man
preparing for the next night recursively
aren't I still allowed to dream?