REALITY?: Wounded

Life makes room for dreams though difficult it makes its path for dreams are precious and must prove themselves to be well worth the passage.

And sometimes dreams are touched by the little gracelessness of reality prowling around perimeters of less contained arenas.

I dreamt of a tree so tall I couldn’t see its crown but at its weighted trunk a gash flowed tears of sap. It asked my help and told me of the man who hurt him, swirling blades and shouting roars whizzing by unmindful of any in his way.  I look again and teeth have bit into its bark.  I wake just as it falls.  Silently, it falls.  And I remember.

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