All my dreams on negate of late
focus on the children of the bayou.
Upon an eight- by five-foot raft
I toil the thickened Mississip with the.
Back to my roots but a bit deeper
that’s where I find my egyptian mater.
She spins us tales of liquified ruin the
kind which simmer purest of souls.
For once one spends decades on tepid
shores become the wicked mirage you see.
The thing you must ask of your own depth
in paramount, do you surrender to it?
Or within yourself find the beast you’ve
known since the dawning of your soul,
much older now, much wiser than it’s enemy,
to take on in breadth alone, to mighty feat?
This is what dreams would sell you if truly
you were born of the strength you boast.
Children of the bayou know the toil
of the which you dare not to dream.
Imagery unto which you surrender
your soul in blackness do you weep.
The answer is that which you yearn not
the gift of eternal nocturn beseeching.
Perhaps it were all for the slumber I dreamt
such lightning, such thunder, then again,
this were not the first put assunder,
I caution the not be careless of blunder.



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