Textured Entrance
Erin Cartwright
Rebekah Stottlemyer

In dreams, my puff ball thoughts are tumbling
blowing, floating from place to place,
over a sea of waving wheat
pulling me further from my home.

In dreams, I am the artist pad,
sleep the paper, image the pen,
shaping, curving on my mind
lulling me to sleep’s embrace.

In dreams, time is a rushing river
roaring, rolling, crashing, dragging
never knowing where it leads
hammering thoughts into my mind.

In dreams, sleep is the ancient realm
grabbing, snatching all who slumber,
turning dreamers to lowly subjects,
slaves to sleep until the dawn.