The book said, your dreams are safe here.
There are four exits to eternity’s wingspan.
The old woman’s dreams fit in her wardrobe.
She recognizes you but wants to let go.
The book says, doors may proliferate even if hinges are rusted from decades of rain.
Invented childhoods might merge with old age.
The old woman recognizes your voice when you whisper or scream.
The sloped stairs are windows to a pristine sphere.
The book says, I can offer you lifelines when you’ve forgotten how to return.
AI can’t create chaos that sings.
Chance said, you must follow past the abandoned garden that harbors enough light for night travel.
Follow the golden threads without looking at your feet to wake the dreamer.
I’ve heard you at night harvesting stars from the ceiling.
Ok, now there’s the greatness of you.
You are very kind. I didn’t leave my ego at the door of the interview and lost answers. Lesson learned for next time. I’m glad you like this prelude. The book needs work as well as new work. Not every hour lends itself to poetry. Sigh. Be well. Be you–and thank you.