To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

Weaving dreams in far away places
to muse, wander in heartfelt spaces
to feel words for which the heart races
let go of time as love embraces.

To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

Living within the surreal
so as only you may feel
closing the eyes to the real
odd images to reveal.

To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

Adventures of the heart to pursue
to fly high in skies of every hue
float on white clouds surrounded by blue
looking down, bidding real life adieu.

To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

To find true love on Venus or Mars
to float among the heavenly stars
hold moon beams like lightening bugs in jars
feel the strumming of cosmic guitars.

To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

To climb tallest mountains without fear
to have and to hold someone quite dear
though in real life is out of the sphere
to reach heights beyond the stratosphere.

To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

To dive to the oceans’ depths so deep
lie on the bottom in a deep sleep
to dream, Davy Jones rising to reap
heart, mind and soul evermore to keep.

To dream
to find the ultimate seam
to fuck
the mind to become moon struck!

Each one of me will cut your wings loose and one will send you skyward where your heart is. The second will send you deep below where your body is. And the third will send you tumbling straight into Devotion.

The dreamwalker will whisper in your ear while carving out the angel inside you. He will pet your hair and caress your heart and find the crack in you where his breath will sneak in, unbeknownst to you, and mingle with your soul; a swirling union of the elemental masculine and the elemental feminine inside the womb of your heart. He will put his hand on your heart and protect the kick that you nourish and nurture inside. And he will write poetry on your skin and write another poem about watching paint dry.

The teardrinker will give you his fingers to kiss in yes, and press them deep into your throat and pull prayers for release and stillness from your lips. He will lap at your tears and embrace you with his teeth and nurse on your blood, invited or not, and commune with your soul through the canvas of your skin. He will speak to you wordlessly, through the growl of possession and you will respond with the gasp of surrender. He will claim you and carve his name into your flesh so deeply that it marks your soul.

And they will both suspend you over the chasm of disbelief, taking you from here to there, propelling you with your own exhalation without passing “Go” and collecting $200. And you will let them because that is the task set forth to The Giver. If nothing else, then simply because it is her nature.

And, finally, the man will reach for you. He will reach for your wrist. He will reach for your hair. He will reach for your throat. And most of all, he will reach for you when you feel little and tired and just want to curl up like a parenthesis around warmth and safety and possessiveness. A puddle of goo at his feet or a purring little kitten in his lap, it does not matter; it is all you.

And he will tell you in a soothing voice,

”Hush, girl.”

And after that, nothing else matters anymore because you will remember the words you, yourself spoke; radical trust. And it is right. It is right because it feels right. And it is right because you say it is.

What is reality, anyway, except for what we say it is? Thus, reality is malleable; even more malleable than your soft bosom on which he rests his head. The soft bosom that cradles your heart that cradles your emotional womb that cradles the spiraling connection that cradles the elementality of the masculine and the feminine, that cradles you and your bosom. And Möbius laughs again because the band never stops playing. And if that is not real, what is?

I will reach around you from behind, into the fragrant garden of Babylon and dip my hand into the pool between your legs and paint your face with fingers dripping of perfume. And you will not even think to speak because speech is an intellectual exercise and your brain has gone fishing, leaving you jumping and splashing in the river of your emotions. You will fly the sky while pinned in front of, below, and beneath me.

And you will sing for me. Laughter is as primal as crying. Giggling is as primal as whimpering. Sighing is as primal as gasping. And nothing is more primal than the kiss. And do not forget the bite.

Yes, my dear, sweet girl; I will cut your wings loose. I will not disappoint you, either; I promise.

And you will teach me to love.