I'd be so brave unaccompanied by a mind.
A dusty candle ignites upstairs and I countlessly make the trek to arrive
inhale
and do away with the fire.
I had a dream that I screamed, lungs full of passion and lethargy.
In that liminal happening
Boiled down to a wild animal, wounded and brave.
Why can't I scream in waking life?
Do I secretly yearn to?
Are the trees waiting?
Living has been a constant process of unclenching.
Can I be a love that just is?
Is a scream brewing?
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