Aged Dream Catcher.

Don't ask, don't tell

My rheumatic hands
click like the smart snap
of knitting needles. I'm
old before my time.

Teenage acne complimented
by dust-filled wrinkles. My thinning,
greying hair still has to have the standard
cut of luscious girls of my age.

Age. What a façade.
Not for the man I work for.

My toes bloom like
pallid, pulsing roses from
my patent leather shoes.
The moon watches me steadily
climb into the drifting, sea foam.
I feel the icy, saline caress. My shoes
pointing out to sea like a soul compass.

This is my work. I'm drowning
in dreams. I may be old and ill
and I feel the medication
has became a placebo but,
I love my work.

I adapt easily to this underwater
hell. This place is not as dark
as the forests of thoughts in the
sphere above. The water is
shining like polished quartz and
sky blue hues.

My toes are no longer separate, they are
like a bouquet, a dolphin fin.

I grab that murky beast that I was sent down for.
A grain of dirt. It truly is amazing,
the splendid horror that one can gain
from a grain of dirt.

It is compressed death, powder of Hades.

I float absent-mindedly towards the surface
and to my employer, desire, friend,
I give this simple gesture.

Johnny Panic. I am a sorceress
but nothing compared to him.

He penetrates the very fabric
of your mind.

And I; and I
his faithful disciple
and writer of his bible
of dreams.

Your metaphors literally make my face go all like this:

Seriously, with each poem you make me become even more of a fan. Stop it rly.

It's amazing. But I'm especially in love with
'Johnny Panic. I am a sorceress
but nothing compared to him'.

The imagery you use is brilliant beyond belief. I've become both a groupie and envious writer because of your writing.