And if I am lost in a dream
torn asunder by the phantasmagoric pulchritude
of billowing winds, whose voices entreat my ears
to a jovial melody of heavenly origins yet
whose sight elicits a flush of vitriolic sensation
upon my eyes, scraping them of every bloodshot vein
leaving there in between stitches of vapidity.
this life I entitle to be my own, whose traces
are like footsteps on the side of a dune
shadowed over, blown over, seared out
of existence by time, a time with no relevance
to fact of my existence. is it an echo of this melody
or a promontory upon which it can further exist?
or is it a note hanging on fine threads about
bars, or the ascension of broken wings towards
the sky? Yes, let my heart break between the jaws
of monotony, and have me waste my time explaining
why all of this is important, or why it should be.
this is no dream; for in a dream, contrary to feeling
one is always in control and death is nothing more
than the great intermission of our lives. in a dream
we are a sublunary Caliban, slaves to Prospero only
jocundly, because truly we are master of the isle.
in a dream we are a street walked upon by Caligula
and his merchants of the subconscious, of whims.
in a dream, god would truly be dead.