I do not speak His language.
Somewhere along the way things get muddled up between my murmurs and His miracles.
When I heard how prayer can work with such clear
results, I was turned on to prayer -- perhaps arousal is the right way to ruin whispers of this sort.
I asked for a sign, for some direction. No more than a footprint's start on a path I'd forge alone then on.
No exit, and I'd already passed into deep REM by then.
I dreamt of paralysis on a stair case. Familiar faces ascended as I begged, static, for explanation. They apologized as to the homeless man, while fingering change for coffee in their pockets. They felt so entitled to their limber liberties, and figured I was lying about where I wished to walk to.
I also dreamt of feces, expelled in all the wrong places. The panic, at having been so near to where is right to let them loose, but not near enough to hide there having been lost at all.
If I spoke His language, this dream would be a sign of no good things, and no good way to go. So, I'll say He's foreign to me and pretend then, I do not know.
No comments:
Post a Comment