Reverie

Take off your rocket shoes of reverie, inherited from the Sandman’s footsteps. Hear them crunch the padded floors of your dollhouse, gatecrashing your parade. Slide back to the musty trenches. Merge, at last, with the earth Yet I still stand, suspended atop peaks known only to the wintery sepharim stratosphere. Cackling at the small worker ants, hurried toward a wistful valley, green with jealousy for the blue ceiling, clothed in woolgathering— an upholstery of sky A pistol shot without regret. A bullet, linear in projection. A bullet that seldom swerves. A bullet going for the vitals. A trespasser with no fear of electrocution. I slice through the buttercup air, smoothly weaving through advancing vines of raging firestorm, aimed to tackle me back. I pierce through the last haywire— into the void. A chair befitting stars.