Stream of Consiousness III

It is midnight and the rain is falling.  There are never torrents here in this land of evergreen forest.  She pours softly from the eave gliding down the tree leaves outside my window. 

I have knocking pain strobes in my eye sockets,  headache gone raw.  Sleep is a tender trinket dangling and taunting my view. 

Counting woolen lambs never led me to dream land.  What might I miss if I’m not aware to watch the night? What might my eyes exclude?  Where might I find myself wandering if I go down under?

My Oz is not the home Dorothy dreams of. 

There are teeth longer than devil nails chattering in the distance, while I wish on stars like the ghosts don’t exist.  I pull out fuck you guns, first my left, then my right.  I have the predators in my sight. 

Hush little angel. Don’t you cry. I’ll hold you as you say goodbye. How could they look into our eyes and think what they did was alright? 

I’m not in pain or angry.  At least not in this moment.  Answers are coded in light beams where truth is not what it seems, illusions are fueled by schemes and in the end they’re still screaming. 

But right now it’s me and the raindrops keeping my heart from stopping.  It’s me and the water. I flow. Mother. Sister. Daughter.  I am the eyes of my father with a shattered heart, left sore from too many wars. 

And his silence aches as I feel his heartbreak, the whispers of his tears.  Too many years lost.  Wind. 

But it’s just me and the rain again.   

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