I often find myself in dreams;
in beautiful or haunting scenarios.
Cold and sparkling places filled with the most magnificent sunlight,
rays shoot between pillars and dye entire courtyards calidoscope cream colored majesty,
flowers burst spontaniously on walls, I breathe crystal clouds into the brisk air around me.
The wonder before my eyes bring me to my knee's
and my throat is run dry with exhaultations of pleasure.
Dark forests surround me,
with wet leaves that stick to the ground, the trees, my feet;
unnamed and unrecognized creatures screech in the trees;
my eyes dart back and forth to find a safe place to hide;
sweat runs down my hollowed cheeks;
my jaw locks my tongue between a painful cage of grinding teeth.
I can never succeed in finding anywhere comforting,
as quick and panicd as I fly.
Like a drugged rat in a circular maze my every sense is alive with panic.
The air smells rank, thick with decomposure and earth.
I know it, but the smell itself evades me.
Such unreal and haunting scenarios.
I feel life itself has become unbelievable.
Every clock I read scrambbles itself,
numbers twisting and contorting uncontrollably
like the strange uncomfortable shapes I bend myself into upon waking.
They are just as tired as I am.
They try to evade there duties and posts,
before I can figure out when the **** I am.
Then of course nothing is forever.
Time is only relative.
Infinity is just a sideways 8;
just like god is only real with a capital G.
The walls know these things just as well as I do,
afraid of there mortality they aviod being used,
and when I lean againt them for support they become unwilling,
dissolving against my touch and leaving me to fall perplexed to the other side.
To the unknown things that await me there.
In transition I picture them,
("them" even are an abstract
fuzzy features barely recognizable as human
but still formed enough to inspire fear, or love)
smiling or licking there lips,
forks and knives and plates at the ready,
to tear me open as I land.
I feel fuzzy as I glide or crumble through the wall,
pieces of me wanting to interact with its substance,
but no one of them is strong enough to hold me in or up against it,
and so I complete my way through at last.
My fears and pictures of the other side are null now.
They scurry and dissapate like cockroaches at the flip of a switch;
like drunken minors at the sudden sweep of a spotlight;
like the leaves of a dieing tree in a wind storm;
like the morals of an insane man;
like couples at last call.
I land with a soft thud on the snowy ground outside.
Even with all of this being so unreal, it couldnt be a dream.
Who would dream such mundane things?
Who pictures themselves as such a grotesk figure;
when the world awaits them,
and they could embody every image or hero they ever admired.
Who would create a place like this.
I suppose I would.
With a smug sense of irony I dust the snow or ashes off of myself as I stand
and wander off into the uneventul landscape before me,
but uneventful isn't appropriate to decribe this place.
It doesn't fit.
Just like entertaining doesn't quite fit a clown.
I walk like I'm on the moon
and with each building step and effort I float a little higher
like niel armstrong conquouring that awe inspiring ball in the sky.
I bounce light footed and bewildered through the desolate landscape
untill finnally I level off and soar up,
up above the buildings.
Forward,
forward through the wind and the trees.
Over,
over the slopes and the hills and the clouds.
Into,
into the stratosphere, and beyond the earth to where there is no air for me to breathe.
But I can breathe
and I gulp down sweet nothing with willful and unexplored ignorance.
Freefloating through space I find myself next to that american hero's immortalized steps
finally centered and landed on the surface of that cold rock.
People fear this orb as magical, or controlling
but i stand on it, and feel nothing.
I look down at my home
  at my planet;
   at all of the people I could ever know;
     at every experience I could ever hold dear;
at all of existence.
And my throat tightens up
my heart pounds like a fightened bird
trying to escape from the cage of ribs its trapped in.
I feel myself drifting off
becoming light again
falling asleep
or waking up in a cold sweat
wrapped lonely in my blankets;
but who dreams of these kinds of things?