Fishing For Dreams

I remember my mother, an older woman, with crinkles in her smile.
Camels on her breath and whisky stories in her eyes,
but with such earthly tender in her hands to hang me.
To her, I was a gift of faith.

There was a young one, I remember her childish smiles and
How they grew into freckle-spotted grins.
To her I am the drums of the Cherokee,
the thrill of a powwow and guardian of nights.

I have stood unwavered when meeting gods of torment in the dark.
Flashes of fire and falling ash in my feathers,
scents of sage run through my veins,
and nightmares are trapped here with memories of a grandmother gone.
In my chimes is the tinkling of a heartbeat coming to a close.
I have bathed in sand on the high tides of visions;
I am the only one who truly knows the entire unconscious.
I am everything they've ever dreamed of,
compiled in such a small web of existence.

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