One should never write about dreams.
They are boring beyond nothing.
They replace what seems with the seams
Stitched between thought and everything,
Pulling loose when one would believe,
Sprinkling detritus like a sieve,
Leaving inchoate images
In minds of the greatest sages.
Huxley with his aquarium
Saw in sea life continuum
But only behind walls of glass.
Asleep, mermaids, all laugh and sass,
And marine grotesques, befuddle
His science. Seas dry to puddles.
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