Not Mine

I hold stones in my hands and lucidly wonder where to cast them, these heat-glowing earth-bones burning my hands in the odd shape of sins. The pain keeps my mind sharp as razor wire, hyper-sensitive to every nuance of subconscious reality unfolding before me.

"I'm aware of my dreaming," my dream-self keeps thinking, tightening her grip on the stones, just an itch-of-a-throw's away from being cast into another pond of plenty-to-be-sickened-by. "Let it steam. Reveal what hides beneath. Confess like I burn and bleed."

The pain feels cleansing, kissing earth-bone to human-bone and still, my dream-self calculates where to throw each stone. "Tell me where you belong," she hums, unconcerned with her hands, no more than bones blackened and browned by the stones; she has no desire to hurry them along.

"One for profit, one for pride, one for the cowards who always hide." I find my dream-lips singing, those bones letting go of the stones almost fleetingly, "one for pollution, one for destruction, and one for humanity's 'ownership' notion."

In surprising revelation, I saw my own hand's regeneration, once the last stone was cast. And in that reality, I came to see, those stone's weren't mine to begin with.