All the unconscious worlds are dancing shadows and lights between every shade of gray. The dragon man, fairy mother, Hermes speaking between the realms of the living and dead. The pan drying in the dish rack with a few resting plates. The only sign She had been here for dinner. Dropping guises, littering this world with clues. We dream of other worlds to see our own inner workings. Nothing is clear. Fragments, figures. Shadow’s openings. Closing doors made of sand. Crumble under a well placed pinky finger’s push. That frees, what? Beetles, mice, rabbits? My mind that falls down the rabid hole? Instead of sitting quietly in the hour glass bleeding sand from one bladder to the next.
Sumer's Words from the Woods 