What life Breaths in the cracks of snowflakes?
What heart beat moves blood in the drops of rain?
I could tell you,
but for that to happen I would have to dream, lucid, walking
on a frozen pond, wearing all black, in a scene that is all white.
Questions are woven into the part of day we eat,
and Poetry what we sip.
And it is this that keeps us digesting the way we do.
My throat is parched for Rumi,
and my stomach is compressing for question marks.
I saw her last night again in my sleep.
I can't say why the idea doesn't live while I'm awake.
But I'm about to call the police there is a murderer by my bed,
And he or she (I can't tell yet) has killed her almost every night
with his or her punctual calling.
Are we a falling snowflake?
Are we a drop of rain?
What happens when we hit the ground?
Does the alarm clock go off
For our dreamer,
telling him or her (I can't tell yet)
Not to be late,
it's going to be overcast skies today?
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the more i read this, the more i see a distinction between the first half and the second half. i see in the first half more of a waking life: actions like eating, sipping, various thought processes. and then later on you start to mention sleep. i like how both of these seem very dream-like, which sets up this feeling of a lucid dream throughout where the reader isn't sure what is dream and what is real. maybe try to keep that aspect throughout your revisions. was there something in particular you were thinking of changing? i think the poem as is sets up an interesting image for a dream.
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