The strange, beautiful places that I go to are located firmly in my head.
But to visit I will need a map well hidden under something that I said.
Some of my nights that have once again have turned into the hours of a day,
Have become a hindrance to remembering those places I'd like to stay.
They're pleasant, uncluttered, tailored specifically to me, smelling like a dryer sheet.
No dirt, no diet, no disturbances, no data, no disco and no suffocating heat!
Each place secluded, mindful to keep well hidden, blended, carefully into my mind scape.
Vague hints float close to the surface, teasing, like the bottoms of eight balls you shake.
Just when it moves close enough for me to grasp it, it tends to dissipate.
My own private "Lost Horizons,"clay like, pliable, in its beauty all is mine to make.
It is gone from me, like a dream that folds when eyes open, and I am awake.
Looking out a window and seeing a diffused light peering between the limbs of a tree,
Can give me a nudge in my minds eye of a place that glowed like that existing only for me.
When my eyes close and when I lay my troubled head on the pillow tonight,
Will I find no sleep, no paths to my Eden's, back to darkness and it's partner fright.
