The Wilds

I dream of wildernesses so green, it burns the back of my eyes. Of emeralds deep and lush, sinking into the shades of the world to be an overlooked mystery. Of delicate ferns overlapping one another like sheer lace, each leaf spread into a duplicated nervous system of creatures passed that have escaped human eyes and knowledge.

These shelters, so seldom seen in between towering graystones, recede further every day. And sallow moonlight carries the tides higher onto rocky shores to sink that which has been taken from the ancient knowledge of dense greenery. She sheds light like a layer of snakeskin, translucent over the earth. She, the softest heart, sets low in the sky in weeping tears to be embraced by the stars burnt from gaseous destruction and chaotic creation. 

I dream of worlds untouched, unbroken by the poisonous breath that colors the sky gray. It is the only place that escapes the yawning chasm of every day and the stress that seeps in like liquid fire. 

The subconscious speaks of the boundary of the unseen and the known things. It is very thin when we sleep, a silver thread that wraps around the tangles of our mind. To dream is to fall into the past and risk slipping, and when we awaken, reflection and questions disintegrate dreams like sand that falls between our fingers. To dream is to forget everything that is worn away by greedy hearts who wish to take and mine holes through the earth’s core. 

The nature of questioning is destruction; to respond to things that will always remain unknown blooms greed. To dream of the towering pine blotting out the sun that withstood centuries, is quickly dying as we forget our everything is out in the wilds. 

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