A road like home

It exists in the brim of a bowl
that carries the fate of our paths.
There’s a spice that peppers like dreams
there’s water from our bosom flowing in it,
There are green colors of hope
and a little brown feathered shadow of fear.
When you put it on a steam of promises
It condenses an air of light
with a scent of fullness.
I read this while trying to become a cloud
after I changed my mind about being a moon,
I chose instead the horn of a unicorn
since in those stories it possesses magic
enough to make the stairway to sleep and become cereal.
these are similar routes to silence
the trees are as colorless as the sleeping sun
and as dark as the armpit of this ground.
How well I see what I sea
is an anchor that is made of balloons tied around my neck

Ruddapoet