Wandering the planes

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I woke up in someone else’s dream –

the world made no sense – cold and devoid of decency,

there were shootings

and death sat, fat and slow, sated at every corner.

It is not my dream, I know, because my world

is filled with life,

and the struggles are in the order of natural things.

My world is warm, even in the bitterest winter,

because there is love there.

And compassion.

And in my world, death is a coyote in the woods

playful, smiling, and ready.

Not the obese creature that devours all

in the dream of the stranger I stumbled in to…

so I will retreat to my dreams,

and leave a small coyote in the other’s dream…

a scrappy, adventurous and resilient form of death

that might overcome the looming shadow in that

other place.

 

 

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