A rustling carpet of dry leaves, left from many yesterdays
Still water in the wishing well, off color from neglect, decays
Oddly rancid turns in the bitter overhanging smoke
Death was here, subtle, eternal,
Death is here in many ways
Granite angels weather quiet, shedding gray flakes in the rain
Summers, winters, are meaningless, hidden words spell out, arcane,
Cycles between night and day, life and darkness, switch, repeat,
And the music of the wind, plays in its constant refrain
Shadow trees quiver and bend, sending down showers of green,
Brown and magical silver, painting a horrific scene,
Chill inducing, wrath infusing, whipping in maddened cycloning
Dementing, perverting the perceptions of all that is seen
Here in purgatory I repose, as reality trickles by
Sifting through my fingertips as silkily as sand does fly
Soft, ethereal, ephemeral, slicing across hardened heart strings
Gentle as a lover’s last kiss, misting insubstantial, I die
Wake me up, before I die
There are dreams, and there are dreams.
Lands of shadow dappled in ashen hues where paths weave in and out, as finely spun as gossamer cobwebs. Stray tracks leading away from conscious thought, into the realms of the unimaginable, the little tucked away nooks of the mind that a sentient, composed person could never find. Where reality mirrors fiction, and fiction mirrors complacent lies, each in its own place a deception, and yet, ultimately, the crystal cut truth.
What do you find, when you walk in the land of dreams? The dreams of the waking, that no man’s land of hopes and wishes and aspiration that you would never tread in, in full possession of your senses. Dreams so finely balanced, so delicately crafted from the silver moonlight of hope, even looking at them with too strong a gaze would jinx them. Dreams that the heart is scared to acknowledge. Dreams that the heart is scared to dream.
And in that land, of time between times, the world does not spin, rather, it oscillates between the what ifs and if onlys of semi conscious yearning. The things you know you cannot have, and yet you want, you want to have. Dreams you walk, walk into, all the while painfully aware that your coherent presence in that emerald vein of the mind, may very well turn into vitriol, eating your aspirations inside out. That’s how afraid I am, of acknowledging what I want. Of daring to dream.
What are your waking dreams made of?