Not sure if it were 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
whispering to the beat
like a python at dawn
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.
Mind The Mess On Mondays 