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.