10.17.20
DREAMS
I’m painfully aware that time is no currency, but on this day I’ve won the lottery.
To say something of magnetism. Your barbwire teeth and bristle skin are expert knife throwers. They fling sharp objects at anything that gets too close, stay right there, hands where I can see, I’m warning you not another step, there’s well-sheltered precious in here. You know;
your tender is no frail, and cages work both ways.
I’m milk and honey eyes, warm breezes, tree sap, and morning dew. It takes metal to hold together the supple of me.
In my daydreams, my gentle meets yours. Barbwire and metal erode away and our souls go “oh, there you are, I’ve been looking for you.”
But there are nightmares here too. Because I know the ugly side of magnetism. I hate to think what would come of our geographies if your metal meets mine. We may not be strong enough, to defuse a missile that weary.