samson.

i dreamt i was in an oversized victorian house. where each room had a different theme depending on how the visitor was feeling. black walls, tiled floors to chipped cream and woodwork. it was a salon for hair.

i needed a change. again. as if the hairs on our head should mean anything at all. samson wouldn’t question our theories. i sat in a chair that moved up and down with ease. the room filled with people and opinions. i wondered if it was my hair i wanted to change.

as the building started to burn i was the only one left remaining. i woke to rain.

smile.

wave after wave
the crisp cloudless sky vanishes

the foam of the ocean is home
tumbling through the madness

i can't help but smile
wondering what this must look like from shore

summer in the city.

the air was warm and the sky clear.
strangers surrounded us.
smoke filled the stage and music, the air.

strawberry stream

I adore looking through old photo albums. It's strange to think I have placed most of these memories, thoughts and images in the back of my dusty mind. It's like all of these subconscious lessons have been learned through vintage telescopes and foggy magnifying glasses. I wonder what the others see. If they imagine the past as vividly and peaceful as I. Perhaps I'm just an optimistic dreamer, floating down a strawberry stream.

33 ways.

on time (monday, monday)

the sun hides behind the earth,
once again.

i'm left here feeling unfulfilled, uninspired,
empty.

my mind gets caught up in the assembly line of life
and soon i realize,
another year has floated by.

--mh