I fell asleep in pieces,
pretending to pretend it was for you.

And then I dreamed.

Inverted sunflowers sprouted
from gnarled branches of an oak
imbued with ages,
heads bowed ever reverent in the wrong direction,
worshiping the seeping ground;
I wanted to listen to the cries
of floundering floral faeries
clinging to sunshine golden petals
as they asked why gravity
had betrayed them.

I needed to know I was still capable
of reaching into the impossible
without my innocence,
verbose paintings trickling
into humorless jokes,
soulless images uninspiring
as the offspring of thoughtless tangents.

I was weak
for thinking everything hurt too much,
hiding half-hatched hopes
in sand dunes destined for glass furnaces—
then the sun came out,
dried up all my creeping spider shadows.

But I don't know how else to be;
is this the image of insanity?