Metallic Treatises

That metallic taste… it’s back again.

Cool, but not; hot like zinc or tin.

I close my eyes; I dream.

I sleep beneath a large tree.

Yet I hear not even the cooing breeze.

Senses save sound accrue.

Sight gives prismatic sensations which scream across the sky.

Touch is intense; minute traces of moisture on finger tips.

Smells linger correlating to that of taste.

Metallic are its treatises drawn cold; written on steel sheets of time.

Now it’s back again, yet somehow I fail to see.

Blackness consumes the vision stolen of a silent dream.

J. Allen Wilson © 5/2008