In my dream
I come upon the sight of cadets digging in the ground.
There's scraping and explosions and they're singing.
But my dream is not in sound.
Now I'm spinning, passing windows,
each compartment full of minnows golden brown.
Meanwhile, back on point
18 compartments up and trying to come down
Data took a swan dive from the tower of
endless repeating sound.
There was static on the radio
The soundtrack of that circus leaving town.
Once we leave our birthing nest,
it makes us into something less.
Mom, I'm tired and want to come home.
But
I need
this
And to my old friends I stick my hand out.
I don't know why.
To talk me down or pass a pill?
Underwater dreaming
Breathing h2o.
The furniture up on the ceiling.
Walking with our eyes closed.
Oh, you've made a perfect mess.
But I don't need you any less.
It's not a dream.
It's not home.