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postcards from the edge of the dream
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The moon leans back in its bus‑seat throne,
eyes half‑closed, crooning a reggae lullaby
while Cthulhu, all tentacles and tenderness,
feeds popcorn to flamingos in the front row.
The court’s verdict is a jar of stardust,
spilling through my fingers as Godzilla waits,
tail swaying to a beat only he can hear,
still wanting that mixtape you swore you’d send.
I haven’t vanished — not really.
I’m just folded into the vending‑machine shadows,
shoelaces tangled in the pulse of the night,
watching the poisonous turtle planet spin
and thinking how lucky it is
to have another dreamer out here on the edge.
.
.
