Secret Place

Dreams meander along this crooked creek,
Flowing in summer or winter or spring or autumn
Or day or night or light or dark,
Not dependent on rains or lake or pond for life,
Filled to bursting always.
Thoughts and snippets and grays and blues
Monochromatic and out of focus
With electric charged emotions
Cut through the fog banks
And pull me under with you,
Writhing and twisting inexorable,
Unable to slither ourselves free
Yet somehow never wanting freedom,
Slaves to each other,
Bound with iron bands of lust
And severed only temporarily on waking.


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