With a flick of hair over her eyes,
She carves intently a mysterious art.
Like a song following the rhythm,
Fireflies move around her heart.
She drives her imagination ,
Beyond the scope of my senses.
It's a gift of the grace,
To build without fences.

Dreamweaver makes it all,
For everyone's heart and
Dreamweaver wishes it all,
For everyone's dancing faces but
Who'll give her those dreams
Who'll make her free again

I live in a village not to far from a town where a Dreamweaver dances gleam full in the night's sky;
She runs with her violet flute bringing the dream she had to create;
They only ever followed her as she could never reach them;
She delivered them to people with better more beautiful prances;
If reached for by her they would flee;
The Dreamweaver did weep wanting to follow her dreams;
All she really ever did say was "Why?";
When she wept you could tell that she had given one away;
She had an idea so they couldn't get away to jump down a well;
She danced and played her violet flute down a small well in her town the dreams she wish she could keep following her down all the way; Once there she tries to grab one but all it did was become a wisp of her dream a dream that the Dreamweaver weeped.

That spindly spider,
I watch as he weaves
A tale of luring dreams. Of captivating fantasies
Trapped within those thin silk threads
A story only the privileged see,
Glistening with dew,
Beneath the gibbon moon,
The dreamweaver,
He makes for you a tomb.

Longing through lonesome days,
supplicating the sun to set.
I anxiously await your arrival,
should consciousness concede to what I covet.

Only in fanciful fantasies,
in the delight of darkness,
and in our notoriously nocturnal nature,
have I ever happened upon happiness.

Give me the gift of your grace,
the spell of your sweet surrender,
and the temporarity of tonight
will flourish into forever.

In the day I may wistfully wander
halfheartedly and uncommitted,
but in dreams I know not the words
lonely or unrequited.

You are the silk, I the dreamweaver,
Spinning, turning, rolling
On my head's wheels-
You became the intricate design,
Strangled and entangled me.

The required pattern orders me
To shear your conception.
But I can't and I won't
For my wheels
Will get frozen

There was once a man
who was known as the dreamweaver.
With eyes open, he knows he can.
Rarely could you hear him say 'Never'.
He stared at the stars
like he knew them one by one.
Never knew he had hidden scars
from a past never begone.

There existed a time
where dreams were weave
to be worn not to sublime.
To recieve nothing is what he believe.
'It is normal' he said
with conviction in his eyes.
It was a dead-promise laid
into a bed of ice.
With realization upon his face,
he began to think
that weaving was not a race.
It is saving something from the brink
of nothingness to become reality.
To become something to cherish.
To help a passionate entity.
To create a blissful wish.

With the whole galaxy in his hands,
he began to stretch the cosmic-fabric.
Shaking what dares to stand,
and to colorful music and lyric.
With happiness in his face,
he continued to weave and weave
until the moons began to cross maze
to chase a dream that began to leave.

He continued to weave until the galaxy
loses all of its life.
He knew it was his destiny
despite ending there he still strive.
'If only there was someone
who could weave the same as I do.
Then everyone will be left by no one.
No one is outgrew.'
There lies in his dream
the weaver of dreams
forever it was only him,
and his story in the cosmic-stream.

Night time steps in

And your presence stretches out

From my head to my bed.



As I spin the wheel for me

And for the world,

I pull together your fragments.

To rediscover, to refine pieces of you.



Morning snatches you away from me,

Dissipating your image to the sunlight.

Yet, it cannot dissolute the saccharine cravings

Or the savory memories from your embrace.

But I worry not, for I recognize

Even the microcosm of imprints left behind.



I can trace your hairline

Out in the arms, head or face

Of a passenger in the bus or train.

It was no wonder where to find you.

You were no stranger to my senses.



I can draw out your eyes

From stones of garnet or granite.

I can hear your heartbeat, your laughter from Irish violins

And Spanish guitars are your private echoes, your fondling whispers.



I can split the distinct outline of your smell

From cinnamon, vanilla and caramel;

Or figure the blueprint of your flavor

Out of morning dew or spring rain.



Tales of heroes from novels or poetry

Are narratives where I retrieve

How safe it felt to be with you.



I only ache for you in every fraction of my reverie,

The incessant reminder of my liquefied reality.

And in the evening you won’t get lost,

For I am all aglow, pointing you home.




Only in your hands

I can submit without dread

And you’re the sole being that knows

The second color of my eyes,

My fingers that memorize every hair trail

On your jaw line, chest and arms.



Your body is just attuned to my secret dance,

Breaking and making the iridescence of dreams.

Only you can read the symbols crowning my head

And kiss me like eternity is born from world’s death.



Earthbound spirits envy this romance of ours,

As Faes bless this furtive union.

So please don’t be far too long,

For even time and distance my dear

Are painful pleasures to my soul,

My addictive links to you.



I await your return tremendously, my lover.

Hold me still and play our song to sleep.

Don’t need to know if you’re my own design,

Or a pattern I recreated.

As long as we remember

What binds us together.

In the shadows of the day

And in the glimmer of the night.

fire, water, rock and air
dreamweaver;
the poets trade.

dreams slip into your mind
as you slip out of it.

Memory lane,
Why has thine own self been stripped from me?
Ripped from me as a lover to a train!
Kept a captor,
A Dreamweaver of a non believer of all your shame!!
Dissarayed unspoken vows go silent,
Displeasing displays of dreadful day's unfortunately stay violent.
A concentration camp for the next man ahead,
For the boisterous instead,
They save segregated seats!!!
No brocade to be handled,
No martyr's near by to that, that ride of fine scandal's!!!!!
A bonfire lit for criminal's,
Maximum turns to minimum,
Nothing stays clean,
All messages subliminal!!!!!
Restraints of rusted clasp,
Afraid of death,
That I am......
No newspapers, no printings,no blueprints,no plans,
How scandalized art thou type? A-way finger's!!!!
Where star crunches fill for Zinger's in a box of kited complaints.
Soo little seems faint in these computer ******* mammals!

You would swear their from below,
Diseased they breedeth, unfortunately grow!!!!!

I grit my teeth, I feel the pain
The blood courses through my veins
The sweat rolls off my brow
And the tears roll down my face.

Where is this place that I am in?
Deep inside my thoughts
This desperate place of longing.
To feel the touch of your embrace.
To gaze upon the most beautiful face...

To crack a smile, and part your lips,
is now my ultimate goal.
The beauty of your smile and laugh
Makes me complete and whole.

But part of me is still not sure,
if you feel the same.
Would you care if I took a plane,
and never came back again?

My arms are open, walk on in
These arms were made for you.
I long to give you a warm embrace
And show you what I can do.

If you show me more of an interest,
I will be more motivated.
That way I know that I belong to you,
And nobody else is trying to steal you away.

I want to be your anchor,
your foundation on solid ground.
You are the only woman who can stop my heart with one quick look,
Can I be the man in which you confide?

That answer is killing me, and so is the time
I have to be patient, and show you, in time,
I hope that you will see me again,
When the dust settles, I will be your knight in shining armor, and your best friend again.

I could do it boo, you know that better than anyone.

So I beg of you,
                                        
                   ­           Come back to where you belong.
                              My arms are open, waiting.
                              My Dreamweaver, get me through these lonely nights.
                              Come, and make me whole again.


                                   Give me another chance.

Hello to you whom I've missed
A welcome sight you are
Like a dreamweaver
Amongst the midnight stars...

Those ceaseless sounds
they continue to amaze
everlong as there shall
be praise.
Yes, lets giveth praise,
For music is the pantheon
which humanity hath raised.
Humans
construct their own narratives.

We are shrouded in these tales,
Each of us wearing our thoughts
woven from the cloth of memory
by the will of a dreamweaver,
And you, the dreamer/speaker.

No wonder the old gods fade, their notes replaced
with these stories we tell ourselves by the light
of day 'til night comes and again it's swept away
by storytellers who emerged from the dark
to practice their art and sing songs of new gods
which we raise up, construct, stitched like robes
we are clothed in these thoughts as our personae
roam, dramatis indeed, theatrically we seek/seeth;

Psychaé
wandering.

worlds within
and without are all waning
insatiable
chaos
vacuum
the void
which sat between heavens
heavens splitting the waters
the waters, the weeds
create living geometries

etch-a-sketch drawings
of silent mandalas

now the dreamweaver
lotus
now the lucid unwaking ones
who appear at your bedside
disdaining your closet

while you lie
awake
sleeping
hypnogogically paralyzed
their eyes burning green
freeze your skies
red
as

Christ
comes

you
trapped in misogamy
you
flying through tattered air
you
****** off this oxygen
burned by the stare
of a mirror

I've been searching for poems
I can relate to
It's three in the morning and I didn't find anything
It should be about a girl falling in love with a dreamweaver
Anyone care to write it?

The clusterfuck of thoughts
And the stars of confusion
It's all make-believe, isn't it

I live in a God's complex
A metropolis of facilities all lined up neatly in rows
One by one, each line of an intelligent design
State of the art insulations perfectly enclosing this refuge
An oasis in the cold, safe from outside harm
Sheltering the lost arts of relaxation and comfort

They say God is blind
Oh so precious was the thought
But from this view
I can see everything
And from the inside
I can hear everything
Carry anything
What could ever tear this down?

Who knows
Only God knows
God's elaborate
God's complex
He oversees everything
Hears everything

But they say God was deaf
That God owed them
A heaven in the skies
That he hears everything
The truths and the lies
But God owns a building complex
Behind walls he was confined
He was a terrorist
By the mask that we assigned
An almost architect
A destroyer nonetheless
And through his own believes
He was once an atheist
A teacher, a student
A son, a mother
A father, a daughter
A cynic and a lover
Conformist and traitor, his own creator
A dreamweaver, human creature, Godmaker
Taking up every living space this world had to offer
Settling in, committing sin
Exploiting God's creations, claiming it theirs
Leeching off all that he is within
Taking and taking as God gave them up out of love
One by one the spaces were occupied
The new Gods came


As all the young and old put words in each other's mouths
Fighting for what was once good, now only selfish
Driven by a need
For a purpose, a calling
A self-fulfilling prophecy to create something out of nothing
They talked in circles and shapes
As he
He didn't say a word
And so they thought he was mute
But they just never listened
Inside these last four walls
He will hear everything
When nothing outside exists anymore
When nothing he's created talks back anymore
When nothing moves, and nothing moves him
Dead silence
He's heard enough
And so on the last day he rested
To never return again


God has a building complex

To renovate
Renovate

Renovating the nothingness inside

At a governmental or another fancy door
Asked again who I am to call,
For my name, affiliation through and fro,
Who am I worth enough to stand at all.

As I bask in my glance and walking tall,
Asked for ID I tear it all,
With the shoes thrown off
And Mind elegantly deformed
I ravish how they eyes are stupefied, so lost

Well, seeming Madam/Sir,
No letter or phone shall make me up,
No telling shall ever be enough
to push all the liquids of senses, acts
from before my eyes
to your lips’ or ears’ sight,
Yet to have it done already
I’ll try to muster an answer
of that measly form,
So on a silent yet like jazz smooth
rampage I go:

I, am,
Immortal Poetry,
Of greater feverishness than a human kiss,
That even I can’t deprive myself of.
I have no restricted name,
Age or body & its ***.

I am eternal pilgrim on that soil,
With my place in My Lover high above,
With no human maternal language.
A Dreamweaver,
Novel,
Sensation in a melody,
Howling Nighty-Starry Wind.

All the gazes & chases I made in my books,
All longings & katharsi of mine.
Un Alma Perdida de ojos y pelo dorados
Que extraña su justo hogar entre versos,
Hierba y estrellas.

A prologue and an epilogue,
C-major on a private, broken guitar string,
Haze, blur in your mind.
The stars I barely see,
My ****** of skin,
And stern eyes of love-arousing passing-by
among the beasts of your kin.

I. Am. I.
For now so much to add,
Now, seeming Sir/Madam,
I’ll let myself pass by