1/4 Kobus Poem/Thoughts1

Wounds are dreams

(half completed thoughts and unedited words like a dream may be)

Dreams are open like wounds

are right the beginning of injury

like the natural flow of crimson

liquid like rivers over mountains

on older roadmaps every dream

writes secret cavernous letters

that hide when every morning

comes  

and

we look for traces of ink in the

bedroom cupboard’s mirror

where the letters and  the sounds

they make may have escaped

behind shelves in archives

but there are only invisible words

that took shape in the depth

of the wood

but

the little wounds and suggested

cracks on the skin do not just die

just like that and in our

most daring dreams

the darkest blood flows like

rivers on roadmaps remember

pumping the

arteries of our

(rem)ovement

with inexplicable traces of

the revolution of thought left behind

on the sheets or in the underlying love

that used to live here between

the things someone left

on the cupboard next to the bed

and

even the deaf may dream dreams

of music and shouting and the sound of

collapsing buildings in older cities

the mad ones may whisper letters

to the cupboard shelves without fear

of being locked up or prosecuted

and the blind ones may look at the wind

and the bruise marks it leaves on

the streets and migration patterns

of winter birds in a less

suburban garden where

the butcher of my thoughts now

lives on under the chemical

sun and the factories of thought

and

dreams are like wounds remember

the world is a force rich of people

and sometimes only bearable for the kings in power

without the fear and discourse and memory

of oppression of one by the other

and

it may also be empty kisses on street corners

full of people passing by like insects in winter

crawling under the skin to crack open

the most unknown of our thoughts

with the wounds of

not being able to fully sleep

because

the concrete war torn floors are cold

and everything smells like dead animals

and old clothes left in a cupboard

yes

these are  just some of the things

that dreams can

never make whole

 therefore

it may in these times sometimes

be our only paradise left

where we are rich like the ocean used to be

before we ripped out its guts and eggs

and

here is the only place where we can give the

fish back to the sea

and where we can sing like waves do when

they bleed onto the sand

with wounds that can never heal

and in dreams I want to give the

sleepless ones in the darkest corners

of our human minds and wars  

soldiers with eyes like dried peas

deciding to walk away

farmers with hands of dirt

making the earth inside out and

full again

and here is the only place

where everyone secretly

and without syntax

 can send messages to other worlds

in other words

of flowers that can never heal

like wounds do