An ocean of misgivings now batters at your brane,
A restless tide of slumber rummaging at its seams
Poking the wretched shelf until it goes insane,
And silting it with sunsets and terrifying dreams
Of a world beyond the brane where heathens grieve
Where mirrors have no tint of ageless wars,
A world where shelves are not afraid to give
And cripples don’t sleep naked on the floors.
Here is a séance conducted by the blind
In hope of reaching mirrors that can see,
To maybe shed some light on what’s behind
And glimpse the truth they never dared to be.
TheThoughtsOfNeaGrigore 