I long to drift
(along the bordering vagueness of my being)
unmindful of purpose, unaided by sense-
perception of what is lacking. Identity,
the core of my questionable core, remains
possessed by bounds I have not the wantonness

to dismiss.

But in my dreams, unconfined, I am free to drift,
to fail (free from ache) to recognize my own
unfettered self scattered to compose
various faces and voices, tarrying
shadows and unstrained hush

of strangers birthed in dreams, encountered
with the most fleeting of my cares. How I long
to drift, ceaseless. Without desire of form.
Or direction. There, but unseeing and unseen.

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posted by S.L. Corsua