I dream of birth, the disconnection of the life giver, the disembowelment of a distorted reality. I dream of a new beginning, the removal of a corrupted eternity, cleansed of a fluidic chaotessy. I dream of jovial exhilaration, exalted far above the material world, below the eternal. My journey rambles me through a world gone supernova, exploding into brilliant shimmering lights of renewal, rebirth, a cataclysmic kaleidoscope of endless flash points in the night sky. To the distant horizon, I wander, I trot, I enter into a world filled with color and light, chaotic light, flash points in the night.

I dream of birth anew. A silly dream of tender, glorious happiness that takes me from point to point, never feeling the coldness of space or denial, or rejection. Ultimately, there is a world where color persists against a colorless void in the night sky. I dissipate with the coming of the warmth, the coming of the light. I ponder the new beginning only for a short period of time just before the parole from the garden, sent on my way to oblivion, on my way to annihilation, on my way to the dark world.

I am born into destruction, into war, into light. I am born into a bright horizon so distant, yet ushered to it as if I will ever reach the zenith of my destiny. Passion bars me, love hinders me, and obedience paves the road in the woods as it rains upon the lonely ones. And still, I dream these lonely dreams of kaleidoscopic births and beginnings, and in the rain, the tears long sense dissipated, are mimicked on the cheeks.