Why all of this suffering? Because we are asleep dreaming we are awake.
I stir in my sleep of you.
Arms aching for
the hold of something real.

Why all of this thinking?
Because we are dreaming that
we are alive.
Dead arms can only hold dead thoughts.

The image I have is of a village
filled with glorious idiots
of every stripe.
No one minding the store
to sell us more.

Vicki Woodyard