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,
prescribed
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
