Throw A Pebble, Cast A Dream

The waters come to a smooth simmer, little radii planted, emitting translucent ripples of meaningful nothingness. In each miniscule wave, another crashes forth, or back, if taken from a submerged point of view. Moving with the grace of air and the glitz of fire, these strokes of lucid liquid emulate all they come to caress and none they miss to kiss. What’s this, a pebble thrown? A dream cast and nothing caught? Does the water beget a lukewarm finesse of vituperative passion? No. Each time a pebble, a solid selection of bits of sand, mineral, and mundane matter, is taken up and jettisoned down, a dream is crowned. Crowned? Isn’t that a misuse of the mind? A faux-pas in logic? Yes and No. A crown or, crowning, is akin to a drowning, since they both can exist in dreams, a fruition of the foresight you might say. But beneath these moot mysteries, lies a detached meaning, far too greasy to grasp and certainly too acknowledgeable to surpass. As the pebble, lighter than the pounds of golden feathers, sinks into this derelict abyss, creatures of the crypt assemble in flanks of flawless flight, with talons of turbulent tides and eyes of endearing enigmas, spread out in inconceivable might. Upon the reality of the asunder arrival into the valley of bottomless bliss, the prophetic pebble, more real than surreal in this harrowed happening, transfigures into a cancerous cyst. And within this cyst, and among its glorified gizzards, an illumination, unparalleled, nay, unprecedented, comes to terms in almost non-existent assist. Yet, as night falls, as do walls, and mirrors begin to shatter, the mythical mirage of stones to shadows succumbs to sequenced shifts. Sleepless strides, which began as rides, about a foofaraw fixture, ends in hallows, similar to swallows, of red, dead, wine. Alas, the sun shines, the birds rise, and eyes begin to cry. The dream is over, the pebble is gone, and this pen is all but full.

The End

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