dancing across a field of dew,
barefoot,
stepping on twigs and anthills and mud,
finding purchase on the curve of a flat world
bending to the weight of
bones cracking in the wind,
fireflies spiraling in an invisible language,
pantomiming eloquence,
little blades of grass cutting deep into
my heel, as i crawl to safety
and pass out
living in a made-up world
with fictional non-playable characters
filtering through with stock phrases and expressions
plastered over their faces,
pretending to be alive,
pretending to be something
fervent nightmares terrorizing
sleepless nights of cold sweat dripping
down/around/up the bedsheet
of plastic horses being driven by
porcupines come to take their rightful place in the animal kingdom
Fred Aiken Writing 