Not sure if it was a dream
or reality, self-distorted.
Like a low drum, a deep and constant bass
their percussion matures
A slow ferment, gathering
hands like weeds
clenching tight around the stalk
that houses the beat
of your mitochondria
like a mighty anaconda
massaging with its esophagus,
unassuming prey
the size of monuments
with its weight in gold, an agenda
to disorient reality-
Unsure if it were a dream.
