Nobody can truly know
how when the nights comes and the moon rises high in the sky,
I close my eyes, excited to take off to the land of dreams,
because I know you will be there.
Waiting for me,
smiling at me,
sitting on a bench in the park with me.
Nobody can truly know,
how immensely happy I am in those non-existent moments.
But they exist, they really do.
Just not here,
not in this cold world.

I feel them touching me
in my sleep .
That morning I spent as a servant .
☆
They leave signs for me
on the road .
A person's name scribed
upside down ,
three times and in a row .
☆
I feel them next to me
on my bed .
That morning I spent as a servant .
☆
They reveal many things
in my dreams .
A story that was hidden ,
concealed ,
three times and in a row .

Composed of fragments large and small;
A patchwork heart that learns to crawl
Through tangled fears, and broken dreams.
Like art from tears—not what it seems.

And while my seams are pulled apart,
By my own, *****, little heart—
With fractured thoughts and restless mind,
the damage wrought, will mend in time.

I call to my own depths
and the love of my life appears
and manifests my long ago forgotten dream.

So now I live the dream
knowing it is illusive and imagined
and infused with the flavor of realness.
Yet, only I am real and it
is seen by no one that this too is
an unreality. Nothing sees itself.
Nothing yearns for nothing.
Blank void cries and laughs
at its own reflection and
make-believes its world to exist
only for its own amusement.

Come play, my only friend!
Go away then come once more
to me and let us dance and laugh
and sing again and again in being
all the varied endless waves.

the mountains cry
as you weep for a love
you knew only in dreams
a mirage you concocted
a smokey appearance
you took for real life
the world can't touch what isn't
and you can't touch what is

There I lay on the cool grass, the cold wind on my face,
my eyes shut as I began to create nothingness,
darkness and emptiness. Who am I, my soul bared?
And then I dreamt, my darkness gave birth.

Like a painter giving life to a blank canvas,
I gave life to my endless thoughts, my void of emptiness,
and soon there was light—
pictures, words, sounds, dreaming.

I dreamt myself a new life. I was a curious poet
traveling the vast earth in search of a new muse, and for this dream,
a star was inscribed into my empty space
like words jotted on paper.

The star illuminated my empty space,
lit up my soul, as it held within its fiery life my dreams.
and the poet resided in its light, patiently waiting.

And so it began, an endless cycle of creation and destruction—
my empty space, brightening with the light of my dreams.
But for each star that was born, another was torn from my soul.

For each dream that crumbled, another formed in its place.
And time is not my friend. I was uncertain which star I would hold in the end,
because I knew I wanted them all.

And as I lay beneath the fig tree, reality convoluted upon itself—
it began to fade, as my mind searched, dreamt, and cried for more.

But time is not my friend, and time future does not exist in time present.
And time past can never be regained—fragmented memories,
left to the whispers of history.

And in this space of uncertainty, my soul lay bare, sure of only one thing:
I had successfully dreamt away my life.