dreamed 2008/9/1 by Wayan.
Deep violet sky. A dry-grass plain.
A few scattered walkers, each alone--
or so they seem.
But these folk can absorb your mind,
So each lone figure on the prairie
Their power's in an organ called a sorb
but tipped with Venus-trap or anglerfish-lure.
A Sorb girl nears me. I yell "I'm foreign!
I lack a dish but somehow counterpush--
I just want to bind her assault on me,
If I blunted her claws, would she be safe?
Won't other Sorbs see her as prey if she's
lost her juice?
And you can't be half-free! I gulp and say:
Leave my mind alone, and I'll leave yours!"
Among the rocks, more Sorbs. I cry my truce
For I just want to wander in gold sun.
I make some inroads, too: slowly truce becomes
No choice before, but now they know that war
A ceasefire in sorb hell." I wake up proud.
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