#dreamscape
how many dreams
can you put in a jar
how many ghosts can you catch
how many waves
can you count in your sleep
how many more will it fetch
cry to the moon
not to loosen its' hold
into the void we shall drift
awaken us Morpheus
from the landscape you weave
I know not a curse from a gift
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 5:59 PM UTC
Are you real?
Are you only a dream of my imagination?
You seem too good to be true
I can hardly believe it.
Imagination…
Are you really here?
You’re perfect in every way:
the way you walk,
the way you move,
your handsome face
you seem too good to be true.
Imagination…
Are you real, or only a dream?
You’re like a melody,
the sweetest music,
a masterpiece,
the finest work of art.
Imagination…
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 4:53 AM UTC
In my dreams, I see you
taking my hands.
The light in you leads me.
Your eyes pull me
to your world
it's just you and me
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 1:01 PM UTC
a nesteling
of rustling
a tussle
with a tassel
roundabout views
encircling a fanfare
framed frowns
displaying cosmic disruption
chaos never in theory
giving to be adjacent
along highways
driven into teamsters
reguiling into a spheric
comfort internal
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 12:17 AM UTC
She sits at her desk like a bird in a cage,
a girl with a mind that won’t fit on the page.
Her pencil lies still, but her thoughts start to dance,
as the music board twinkles, she slips in a trance.
The chalk marks ignite with a shimmering breath,
they twirl into dancers defying all death.
A dotted half note leaps into the air,
and spins in three-four time with elegant flair.
A half rest bows low, a sharp note takes flight,
staves bloom into ribbons, then vanish from sight.
Basslines roll heavy and thunder on by,
as flutes weave their songs like a breeze gliding high.
The air becomes thick with a roaring, wild choir,
until the crescendo becomes something dire.
A crack in the staff, a flicker of gloom—
a sharp voice—not brass, not string, not bassoon.
’Twas the teacher, now chiding, baton in her hand:
“I need you to focus up here, understand?”
The music dissolves, the dancers withdraw,
but wonder still lingers, defying the law.
Her thoughts find the ticking, a hush wrapped in glass,
like breath on a window that’s trying to pass.
A round-faced timepiece with red rosy cheeks,
ticks on with two hands that twitch as it squeaks.
The numbers all twist, they refuse to stay,
three becomes six, then it floats far away.
They dance a brisk waltz, in synchronized pairs,
swirling and twirling like dreams through the air.
But just as the rhythm reached new crescendos,
a hush falls again in diminuendo.
The cherub now frowns, with a scolding in rhyme:
“Return to your places—behave, and keep time!”
It ticks with a twitch and a sharp little glare,
then the teacher again, with a cold, burning stare.
The clock hands crawl slowly, the charm is erased,
no waltzing of numbers, no shimmering grace.
Her eyes dim to silence, the dream overthrown,
as she lays down her head with a soft, quiet groan.
But something still stirs her, the world slipping through,
as the windows invite her with skies painted blue.
The hum of the lesson begins to recede,
replaced by the whisper of wind through the leaves.
The ceiling dissolves and the walls fade away,
the chalk and the clock just echoes of day.
The desks turn to vapor, the lessons to mist,
and silence becomes too unreal to exist.
She leans out of time, from the pull of the ground,
where disembodied birds let melody sound.
Three bluejays perch on a tree just in sight,
their feathers like scribbles that shimmer in flight.
Now she’s in the branches, as small as they seem,
watching them soar through a watercolor dream.
Two take to the wind, but the last does not flee,
it watches the girl, as if waiting to see.
Perched in the boughs, the girl longs to ascend,
to where music and wind weave a world without end.
The earth lies below, like a thought once untrue,
as the tree’s branches part, carving pathways anew.
She looks down in wonder, a hush in her chest,
her body below her, unmoving, at rest.
The line becomes thin between dream and what’s true,
as she turns to the sky and thinks,
What if I flew?
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 9:28 AM UTC
To fly in my dreams –
I felt like a plane;
my fingertips caught pieces
of the wind, my whole body
lifted by the ache of leaving.
My feet forgot the ground,
wings cut through clouds like
truth through lies; my eyes shut,
yet I saw everything – the pulse
of direction, and the taste of sky.
Goosebumps rising like warning
lights, from an engine burning
_faith for fuel._
Then the fall –
sudden, violent, real.
A flash, a scream, a crack – the dream
quickly split open like glass on breath.
I woke in the wreckage, a cold sweat
for rain, still hearing my wings trying
to hold me.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
Swing time is over.
I’m tired and wander through an apocalyptic portal;
albeit a motel.
Landscapes of red dunes brandish the theme and the hot air hits me square in the face.
I am in Modesto.
A classic motif of the 80s dullness ascribed to each room of this Motel 8.
Then there is one room completely covered in everything Hello Kitty. Sanrio is serious.
The bed spread, the rugs, the pictures hung askew with intent
That sent me into a sleep I can only surmise as a coma.
Dreaming to sleep.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:16 AM UTC
Dreams entangle and untangle,
Melding a mess of what is, what was,
And whatever will be.
Makes sure and unsure
Between what’s near and what’s far—
A state of certainty and uncertainty.
Hours will pass, years and centuries,
And repeat for eons, repeat for eternity.
Shed your worries and fret not,
Because you shall dive
Into a world without history.
Search not there for holy nor for divine—
You are the god,
All-mighty entity.
Create and destroy all that you want,
Merge with matter and with energy.
In this place, nothing’s strange nor is bizarre—
It’s all just a dream,
And you are dreaming peacefully.
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 4:30 PM UTC
Candy perfume
Cotton candy clouds
Unicorns drinking tea
With an umbrella made for three
Teddybears in suits
Ladybugs weave glitter
Blades and chocolate
Butter and veal
Soft and sweet
Timid and mild
Golden tipped chipped china
Eggs on goblets stand
A tap
A knick
A spank
A kick
And all you add is pepper
Until you sneeze
Baby candy bears
Minty chocolates
Melting fudge away
Breathing in peppermint bark tea
Basking in the muddled blend
Of pink and blue and stars and diamonds
The nighttime dreams to begin
Nonsensical tantrum of sleep
Of unnatural restlessness prevades
Another place awaits you
Deeply packed in salt
A well taken care of spot
Renewing the smell of steak, medium rare
Reds and white galore
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 9:07 PM UTC
I had a dream, I wonder why,
It was you, yes you,
Though veiled in fog,
I knew, it was you,
Felt real, felt warm, felt love,
because it was you.
Hmmmm, you were humming,
made me sleepy,
Your aroma made me feel at home,
The green jacket suits you, your smile suits you,
You came closer to me,
and yes, it was you.
I heard you say my name, the nickname,
You looked me in the eyes,
I wonder why I cried,
I wanted to hug you, but I couldn't,
It was a dream, but I'm sure it was you.
It's a song, sung for you.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC
i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.
stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.
the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.
the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile
with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.
i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.
am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?
the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.
i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.
the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.
but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.
i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.
perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 3:22 PM UTC
The petals last pulse under forgotten echoes of moonlit shadows,
remained in a lavender scented field, soulfully still
The breath of crushed velvet, paired with unnamed galaxies,
bespoke of amethyst daydreams
Woven into them were sighs of silky dust nights,
filled with scorched upheavals
Dancing orchids draped in full bloom,
stirred fiery rains, flowing within air of royal dusk moons
Wisteria hues,
too refined for eggplant plums & hominy hums
Iridescent irises & lilac leaves whispered between
blue lagoons cloaked in filtered rooms
Still, they stand between
midnight dreams & mystical realities
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 10:17 PM UTC
the trees hum in slow green syllables,
and the wind—
soft as breath against sleeping skin—
slips between the spaces we leave open.
cloudlight spills across your shoulders,
a whisper of morning in hues of mist and mint,
and somewhere, the world forgets its weight.
a petal trembles
on the surface of the pond—
not sinking, not floating,
just… waiting.
you don’t speak.
you don’t have to.
the silence fits
like moss in the shape of your name.
everything softens:
the hours, the outlines,
the ache you thought would stay forever.
here,
time is water.
you are the shore.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 10:58 PM UTC
_The sky hums in hush-toned hymns,
a low lullaby spilled from clouded lips,
each droplet a note pressed into the pavement,
a whispered memory stitched in silver.
Windows shiver with ghost-sung verses,
curtains breathing with the rhythm of sorrow,
and the wind—a cello bow against the bones of trees—
tunes the ache beneath the leaves.
My heart is a rooftop, dented with echoes,
each raindrop tapping a forgotten name.
Love trickles down the spine of gutters,
flooding the roots of things I tried to bury.
A sigh in the storm drapes over the hills,
a velvet hush, soft as moth wings on skin,
and puddles bloom like mirrored portals,
reflecting versions of us that never unraveled.
I walk through the hush, barefoot and blinking,
as the world dissolves in a watercolor blur,
clouds unraveling like old lullabies,
and time dripping slower beneath the storm’s spell.
A single leaf spins a slow waltz in the wind,
a dancer suspended in the music of mourning,
and somewhere, in the hush between thunder,
I hear the song you never finished singing.
The rain writes elegies in rivulets,
soft verses sliding down windowpane spines,
and though the storm may pass without promise,
I press my ear to the dusk,
and still, I listen._
Mar 21, 2025
Mar 21, 2025 at 8:50 AM UTC
she has my voice,
only sweeter;
she has my notions,
only purer;
she has my pride,
only gentler;
she knows i’m hurt,
only better.
she means well;
is it… only a spell?
she breathes a song;
only, i cannot tell —
if she yearns for me,
or only mourns for me.
to me, it don't seem;
but i know —
she's only a dream.
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 5:21 AM UTC
Frost laces the earth —
a quiet diamond veil,
whispers of smoke rise,
spilling through the breath of trees.
Snow, soft as forgotten dreams,
drifts over stones, over roots,
its silence pressing close,
like a hand on the chest of night.
The wind, thin and sharp,
skims the hollow of the hills,
pulling shadows into its folds,
sewing the moon into the bones of the sky.
Bare branches stretch,
clawing toward a distant sun,
their fingers white and brittle,
writing cold prayers in the dark air.
Below, a river sleeps —
its pulse muted,
veiled under ice,
the valley cradles it in a long, slow sigh.
In the pause between seasons,
we linger —
half-light and half-shadow,
breathing the fragile quiet of winter,
waiting for what is to come.
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 1:44 AM UTC
Children of one heart,
Devotion's ocean runs deep,
Colors make it clear.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 1:16 PM UTC
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.
Sep 13, 2024
Sep 13, 2024 at 9:42 PM UTC
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.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 10:53 PM UTC
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.
Sep 16, 2023
Sep 16, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
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.
May 31, 2022
May 31, 2022 at 4:40 PM UTC
Summer at your home;
thy embrace, warm.
Mondays of June,
those coffees with you
felt like love so true
-
....must we?
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 11:04 PM UTC