These dreams are like bubbles
Floating on the whims of the winds of the day
Some land in my hair and get tangled there.
I wash them out, try to wash them out,
but they come back like a chronic pain.
The past is a knife cutting the same wound,
and now there is no blood when I am cut.
I have left blood dripping all around me,
you can follow that to find me.
But once it’s dry, will you find me?
Will you see me? Am I invisible?
If the blood trail is gone, am I invisible?
Do you see me? Think of me?
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copyright by pathoftreasure, 2011-2017. All text, poems, and art are the property of pathoftreasure. Please do not use without permission. Thank you.