At times, you choke on your breath as you fall. Then, the lids of your eyes shoot open. A sneak preview of a nightmare. You were asleep all along.

Life is but a dream.

Sunset-amber flames curled from the cedar kindling of the great divine,
and lo, from an imperceptible dimension he crouches down to a wick,
you,
us,
them,
me,
on a wax of chance,
on dirt not far from the sun,
we hiss into being and flicker in the cold wind of uncertainty.

From this, a hard-earned lesson; a lifetime is spent reeling love into our arms until time pries them open and make off without yielding to consequence, save for us who are foolish enough to believe we can outlast it.

Who lived to ever tell?

Fracticous hours know not the pain of wasting away as it saunters by, leaving wilted hope frozen beneath its shadow.

Storm clouds in the horizon charged with crackling blue bolts that split trees in the open.

Grief flashes through our eyes like headlights bracing themselves against the graying sky metastasizing into darkness.

Moon-white hair, dyed by the endlessness of crossroads leading to nowhere, is sheared short, and shorter still until they fall limp on the scalp that cradled them.

One can only hope that their roots reach deep down into throbbing wisdom which a weary body has amassed over tumbles and falls.

We know not.
Some nostrils come powdered if only for a moment feel alive until it wears off.

Some hang on cliff of smokes sailing through the air if only for a moment artificially induce emotions other than loneliness.

Some wicks come bent, breaking dirt, submissive, submerged in salt water or oil for a chance to burn another way.

Still, there are those whose heels are filed by dust and sand, smoothening them perhaps, but praying they could be planted and hold flame elsewhere.

But there are wicks that are born with eyes weighed down by the ego and sights nailed to their chin and nose s anchored to the clouds.

Some wicks are coated tips, but in truth are fuses to fireworks that light up the skies. Often loud, leaving s stamp on time.

Some hide, losing themselves, they do.
Heinous crime against the essence of being.
Hiding behind an image that does not exist.
Hiding behind expectations.
Hiding behind a false construct and letting the play of light warm up and comfort misled believers.

Some pile up blocks of wood, glass, steel, silicon, and plastic, hoping to burn brighter but in the end just burn out like the rest.

Perhaps as wicks, we can light those who cannot for themselves, for those who are obscured by shadows, for those who are dampened by the downpour.

Perhaps the world wouldn’t be as dark. Even when the sun is going about her day.

We’ve been falling all eternity.
Life is but a dream.

Am I supposed
To be here?
This doesn’t feel—
This doesn’t feel—

real.

I’m sleep-walking
Through a lucid dream.
It’s so, so loud.

I don’t hear anything at all.

My mind is only
Television static.
Why can’t I—
Why can’t I—

𝘉𝘶𝘻𝘻.

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱.

It was all so perfect,
There we went, driving along,
Around a glittering town on a september eve,
The city lights and the stars shine off the lake,

The wind blowing in my face,
As we cut through the country,
Laughing and talking, on and on,
Everything is so natural and soft,

Your hand brushes my arm,
A tickle that I have dearly missed,
Your skin is softer than silk,
And your scent wafts around my head,

There are crickets and frogs,
Singing their choruses of love,
The world around us seems to fade,
And we are alone in our space,

Effortlessly, I spill my soul to you,
You talk sense, and say what I need to hear,
Your words are gold and alabaster,
Soft, smooth, and elegant,

I sigh, as I let go of my stress,
"Finally.." I think to myself,
As I realise the weight I've been carrying,
And on the wind I hear a sound,

My eyes flash open wide,
As I realise whats happening,
I'm helpless to stop it or hang on,
The alarm in the distance grows,

You look at me as paniced as I must be,
"Wait, no, What's happening to me!"
Bits fade, and pieces disappear,
I hang my head but the tears can't come,

As my alarm gets louder and louder,
As I'm dragged back into this hell again,
... I roll over and punch the bed,
I HATE your beautiful memory.

Here's to the ephemeral nights carried away by the sounds of birds.
While you were tracing constellations in your popcorn ceiling
I was drowning in the midnight blue, thinking of love,
And how the shape of water reminds me of you,
I packed a bag of dreams for the bus ride down your memory road
To keep me occupied in your dreamscape world
as I chased remnants of wished-upon dandelions
back to the backyard where our laughter still circled with the wind
only to find you waiting with our two-handed promises still knotted together
the dreamscapes shed around us
and sunrise glow burned through our souls
shoulders hunched by weighted confrontations
night escaped hours ago, but I, desperate to hang on, drown in day-glow
My memories and dreams have melted into motion blur
And thoughts of you carry them away to the moon.


I am back to where you left me last, taking reality on a walk,
As a long summer day saunters ahead.

Summer at your home;
thy embrace, warm.

Mondays of June,
those coffees with you
felt like love so true


-
....must we?

They had
once been here
before, beyond
the light years still
in the calm silence
of the dreamscape
of indigo and blue,
where came the
oceans of hearts
fracturing the
fabric of the
universe,
to create
and see none
other than
each other,
in the hour
of the midnight
realm, others
passing by
are silhouettes
in time and
ghosts painted
in their dream
of tidal eyes
upon each
other, wave  
on wave,
skin on skin,  
the breath
of one
vanishing
into the
voice of
a blue
butterfly
in soft
bloom,
tears
from the
stars
cascade
on the
lovers,
their
hands
in gentle
embrace,
rising to
the night
sky as
light
as the
dandelions
are returning
to the night,
as starseeds
of many,
twinkling
amidst the
the lovers,
whom are
adrift in
everything,
everything.

as you wake to a dream
that's been sleeping