Part 3: Flying the Blue Wonderland or The Persistence of Dreams

Silhouettes of glorious trees greet us as we pant into the sky. There dwells the inhabitance of serine dreams, and in the street lights gospel they waltz beneath the stars unseen. The sifting sky breaths a sigh, a shudder of perception. The illumination of the pure breeze whisks about your ears and in the darkness of the ally there is a plummet of cement to a secular existence. The song of the dive lingers in the slopes of my ears and we slide into the stars. The sight of Veterans only furthers the persistence of dreams. A lingering giant in the sky is looks upon the droves of allotted plastic slots- some filled, some remain empty. We come upon a Rip Van Winkle valley, a buried court, shrouded in leaves and barbed wire. A yellow star hovers inanimate above the translucent walls of wire. The obsidian wave of earth is slick to the wheels, and sing a pitter patter of extraordinary paste as we sour to the Earth below. And the last of the looming lights show us out, and give us their humble regards. To the ground we sling about into the either about us. We slide down the pavement met by the nocturnal deities of the forests. And in the familiar unseen black, the shadows of trees which bind the existence of light, we make way along the dance floor continuing into the night. The spirit of America flies through the unseen green. We find our way in the night, a bone warming chill, and the song of reality, clouded by the tranquil hue of a surreal existence. We come upon home, in the valley. We are lost in the dreams of life, and we ourselves are obscured by the twilight. Keep living along in the reality, askew, salvation is as obtainable as the air is permeable, and there you can find sanctuary: in the nebulous skies and their breath about us, a blue wonder land, the milky veil sifting over the stars.