there are many rooms
but only one soul
there are many scenes
on your revolving stage
there is a curtain that
blows in and out
if you cross the room
and open the window
looking for
forgotten consolations like the scent of
spring air
dreams rush in with the wind
everytime and you couldn't explain
to anyone if you were asked:
"...the first dream or the last?"
it's not the sequence you care about
there is your
suspension of belief and then:
the many-tiered music begins again
mary angela douglas 9 august 2008
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