The Dream

The dream

is a tumble through madness.

The flicker of pictures

feeding a candle flame,

but the flame is not fire

and the dream is not a dream;

it is as real

as any other reality.


In between waking,

we encompass the abandoned,

struggling towards them,

as if we never did ignore them.

Our homes sit derelict,

slumped like old cardboard boxes

left out in the flood;

and with them,

our treasures in ruin.


Try as we might,

reach as we may;

the past

is the past,

is the past.

We only come from there,

we can never go back.


So we shift our focus;

whether by force of will,

or magic,

or chance;

the dream becomes

a forest of our experiences

that opens up

into the place of our ancestors.


There is something there.

Something to learn,

something to feel,

something to reach out

and touch and hold;

as if discovering

this tangible piece of our history

proves our existence in the here

and the now.

But when is “now”?

And where is “here”?


Tied tightly behind thin wire cages,

our urges and our sufferings

are exhibited like a sideshow.

Sick, urban narcissism,

emboldened by the cries

of “Me! Me! Me!”

coming from the mouths

of pink skinned,

fledgling tyrants.


The “Ungrateful little yuppie larvae”

grew up,

bought homes,

and now have larvae of their own;

even more ungrateful.

The maggots,

that feed on the body

of their mother.

Soul sickening,

so we retreat.


The mind finds the surface.

Eyes breach

the ink black lagoon

of sublime respite.

Another dark world awaits,

severed only by eyelids.

Separate worlds

that dance together

to sinuous rhythms,


by the Silent Maestro.


Awakening is not understood,

nor is it malleable;

but there is no bargaining with the world

once the eyes are open.

The dream cannot be undreamed.

The thought cannot be undone.

Only the quickening of the mind

finds us ready

for this new reality;

made imminent

by the simple sounds of morning.


HG – 2018

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