Becoming

A knock on the wood white.

Salutations to the prior good.

Whom want the dream.

At the fine hours of pleasant convenience.

When ears rattling with glittering obeisance.

The vacant promise of a dreamers acquiescence.

The air fills with Gold.

The aroma of complacent stares.

No doing or wishing.

Lay back into couch of bone.

Comfort from their hardships.

To talk of the known language.

Of getting and of attack.

Only if you know the depths of the righteous.

They sit unbridled and unconcerned with the outside.

Bedroom glistening of lost attachments.

No aesthetic for the hopeful, ordinary and dirty.

The insular mysticism is ravaging.

In the endless attempts to break free.

To find home on the disheveled stained carpet.

To find soul on the dog urine grass patches.