i visit your mind from the inside of mine
i visit everyone
it is not my decision
i am in a spot that is maybe your great great grandmothers sisters garden where her husband would watch her for hours from different windows of large house. everyday she'd grow and groom lilies with more efficiency than people that worked hard for money.
i am in an earthy, shady spot in that very garden and i am digging. everyone watches me. my name is said twice in a poem, which i think is very beautiful. some silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids seem to inspire my onlookers to repeatedly ask me how my garden grows and I don't know and when they ask it just turns my heart into a thing with eyelashes that is capable of crying. maybe the little salty tears are good for the soil and digging, i mean, the lillies still grow, so i don't stop.
it is not my decision.
they all think i am dreaming.
i wonder what i look like from the windows of the house, i count the row of pretty maids and i hope, as i dig, that maybe now you or i could finally exist as something more than just human. its happening but it never happens.
you're you and sometimes you're already not, but either way,
somebody big and tough holds the reigns on your subconscious car
crashes. who you are then controls the colors of your garden dwellings
and elementary school memories.
nobody i have found sounds the same
but my garden is your garden
i know it is.