These scenes play out on eyelids’ screen,
This virtuoso performance
That no playwright could have foreseen,
Of such fantastic discordance!

Engrossed in this film with no plot,
With unknown actors in the lead,
I’d look away but I cannot,
The action is driven by my need.

Leaving the theatre of my sleep,
All of the faces still remain,
Fantasies filed away so deep
Inspire the poems in my brain.

From whence a poet’s vision comes—
Forgotten scenes that once were clear,
The rhymes are just a trail of crumbs
I use to bring the real near.