The dream is poetic.
No
meter or rhyme: timing or consistency.
The
most brilliant of which lingers with the scent of yesterday.
Breathe
deep the memories of a time or place.
Real or imagined.
Snapshots
of unconscious observations comingle with loathing.
Static
fear.
Stifled cries.
One
labored step after another
heavy
eyelids and spastic joints.
Cameos
of faces from the past or with publicly induced fame that does not impress me.
Larger
than the life of the woken.
Grander.
Uncomfortable.
Fabulous
moments of shocks and terror.
People
doing strange things
Strange
people who are relevant yet insane
where
whim is rational and my voice is ineffective.
Inconsequential.
A
concoction of all life’s hidden desires
conscious wants and
disturbing
appetites’.
Delusions.
One
more moment of ecstasy in my slumber
One
last visit from the mocha woman with the glittery soft breasts.
Please
let me cum before I wake.
Please
let me wake before the dying shot kills me!
Metaphoric
pain.
Voiceless
whispers.
Silent screams.
Excruciating
desire for this world of Escher to be a dream.
Desperately
in need of my conscious life.
It wasn’t that bad,
was it?
Exhale
into the waking world relieved and disappointed.
Why
the hell would I want to live there anyway?
The
anti-me
The
real me?
The
part that has become broken and unhinge
Plagued
with the absurd
in
desperate need of repair.
But
by whom?
By
me?
In
the madness of the moment who will save me when I cannot save myself?
Who
will wake me?!
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