you beguile me
with your talking dead
who said dreams
were of the future?
my history flickers
through my REMs
like a trailer for a movie
I did not choose to watch…
crumbling gray walls
around my mother’s home
my father confusing
some interloper for my lost sister
extending his hand to her,
from the grave, good naturedly,
in the flatlands of life
I feared him
even now, feeble on the floor
of this flowing dream
he has power to perplex
by appearing, by simply taking milky shape and form
reminding me he once was there
and that I must let him go
and my mad mother as well
but I am not running the projector
when I slumber, again, and again
they and the other fallen actors
can grace the screen
and all I can do
is open my eyes
to a deeper dream
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
you beguile me
with your talking dead
who said dreams
were of the future?
my history flickers
through my REMs
like a trailer for a movie
I did not choose to watch…
crumbling gray walls
around my mother’s home
my father confusing
some interloper for my lost sister
extending his hand to her,
from the grave, good naturedly,
in the flatlands of life
I feared him
even now, feeble on the floor
of this flowing dream
he has power to perplex
by appearing, by simply taking milky shape and form
reminding me he once was there
and that I must let him go
and my mad mother as well
but I am not running the projector
when I slumber, again, and again
they and the other fallen actors
can grace the screen
and all I can do
is open my eyes
to a deeper dream
actually had two distinct dreams I recorded from last night--this was the first, though written after the second one that occurred chronologically
Request permission to use this poem