Slow Ferments

Pick me up, oh dreary dream the night has come and my tears are sobering my last drunken tears. The sobering smells of the fresh Jasmine that blooms in the early spring bringing me closer to all that reveals itself as being true. The light is in front of me, but my eyes cannot wrap around the nourishing touch. A stranger at a far distance and a lover at an inch away. The wholesome nourishment is as obvious as a bread maker's craft, and yet I munch on stale bread and dilapidate around the matters of the soul. I grim in my possession. My mind knows only clouds and vanishing winter storms. Spring screams at me and yet I remain... remain as sour dough that sits quietly under the moistened cloth.