Parched, not dry, cracked not broken.
Dripping, not oozing on an unknown planet.
But alive. Breathing, clawing into the soil.
Finding the dreams which once lived there.
Dreams of aliens, which seed new thoughts.
Once they become mine I become an alien.
From green depths erupt purple volcanoes,
Are they thoughts? Letters? Alphabets? Dead experiences?
The magenta oozes out of my pores and flows out as ruby red,
Shines in the alien suns, in a color my eyes see but my being does not.
The moons bathe me, and I bask as the cold basalt.
The waves of my soul nudge me alive,
I write on the sands of time.
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