Dome of earth, crush each other

maybe it's the end, of paralyzed dreams

that lurks under the saint's bed!

Passion —muted— glued with nut butter,

easily pointed through silent letters. 

circling around the sun,

you'll see new lights, 

pressed alternatively,

woven together in between, 

like scooping a scratch box. 

secrets in the raffle tickets, shuffling

around in new digits, if somewhere

I hope winged ballpoints will stretched

again, in the same way you spot

clouds muffled with white dragons. 

smoky wisp, spirit that light up

instantly, boiling dreams,

drove back in the resentment

shadows, part of lies, part of life! 

. . .