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MidnightVersePoems
In the dream, the river ran uphill, carrying houses like driftwood toward a sky the colour of bruised glass. I traced its course in ink, my pen snagging where the current turned. By morning, the lines had settled into streets I knew – and the name of the man who drowned there rose like a landmark I’d forgotten I’d visited. Each new commission arrived folded like a secret, ink feathering into shapes I half remembered: a bridge bent into a question, a forest where every tree hummed a different note. I pinned them to the wall and watched the dream stitch itself together— until a childhood back lane opened between two impossible mountains. The final map arrived at dawn, its creases like the palm of a hand I’d once held. The questioning bridge, the clock without hands, the river running uphill – all converged on a vacant lot two streets from my door. At dusk I stood in air heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen and saw the outline of a house that no longer stood. In my mind, the rooms were lit, and someone I had lost long ago waited at the window, as if I’d only stepped out for rain.
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Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 11:01 AM UTC
The Cartographer of Dreams
In the dream, the river ran uphill, carrying houses like driftwood toward a sky the colour of bruised glass. I traced its course in ink, my pen snagging where the current turned. By morning, the lines had settled into streets I knew – and the name of the man who drowned there rose like a landmark I’d forgotten I’d visited. Each new commission arrived folded like a secret, ink feathering into shapes I half remembered: a bridge bent into a question, a forest where every tree hummed a different note. I pinned them to the wall and watched the dream stitch itself together— until a childhood back lane opened between two impossible mountains. The final map arrived at dawn, its creases like the palm of a hand I’d once held. The questioning bridge, the clock without hands, the river running uphill – all converged on a vacant lot two streets from my door. At dusk I stood in air heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen and saw the outline of a house that no longer stood. In my mind, the rooms were lit, and someone I had lost long ago waited at the window, as if I’d only stepped out for rain.
Every map is a confession.
#detective#dreamlogic#investigation#map
MidnightVerse
Written by
MidnightVerse
47/M/UK
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 11:01 AM UTC
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