liquid

Wherever I did stand and for that matter by extension
Wherever I did go, I dream of trudging through
Wading through, ankle length lakes of liquid….

Clear, cold, fresh
But I question its origin, if it can be called
Referred to as water…

I hear the sloshing sounds
Yet my feet feel as if gripped
By some sort of leaden substance…

All floors become tiled
Even those that had been carpeted
The same applies for the streets…
One they have been reached…

I had forgotten this aquatically themed dream
Until the streams of memory came flowing back…

When mother showed me the footage
Of the Frankish streets…

Flowing with sea-ly  tears…

No life occupied these shallow waters
In which I walked…
Only my reflections…

And even then…
Those were minor…

And not at all that clear….