Wash Over Me
door that opens, water, over my legs flow
in this dream I, find home, my home
sweet and good and agreeable and insipid
as objects pass, memories? notions?
wading into colonial style lodgings
I question not where, but who
and why does this water, clear, warm
doe not pass not drain not allow, my feet dry
I wake
wondering….
© 2012 by DC Lessoway
Posted in: Life, Philosophy, poetry, Psychology, Uncategorized, writing
