Hopefully, we all can draw some water from the lake of creative illusions, bringing color to the picture.
“Choice, I have none.”
Those sleepy weeks,
affecting the eye of my mind,
squeezing all the meaning out of them.
I walk inside the bubble,
I see the shapes of color moving
on the inside of my vision,
outside there is trouble, war, collapse
but all I do is glide
above the lake of my illusions.
I barely speak,
only witness surrounding greyness
imprinted on the faces
Dryness in the mouth and lungs,
begging for the precious liquid,
drawn from that holy lake.
I have none,
head sinking in
covering the ears,
I can’t hear you speak.