They say one cannot read in their dreams,
But I've done it.
Saw each word vivid as vivid as I know
Dreams to be livid and lucid armored
Inventions of deeper realities combating for
Essence in action. In motion. Awake. Again.
My eyes tumbling down like mounds of sand
When the wind blows searching for crevices to settle in
And marginalize and quantize the space between
Reason and faith.
Touch and sound.
But I dreamt words. Again.
Are they yours or mine?
It tasted of sorrow
-as do all words already do-
And each form of noted thought was clear, but faded
With each new word formed aloud by the voice
Suddenly questioning the vestiges of the unspoken hum...
But for the first time someone answered.

But who?
Was it I who read?
Was it I who questioned?
Was it I who wrote?
Was it I who answered?

Was it I?

Either way, it is still yet I who is
Bound to unknown tethers,  
Arrested to both spoken and unspoken words,  
Wasting away trying to remember  
The answer.  

Weary.