The rising sun keeps a triangle of shine On my orthopaedic pillow, Shaping the window which allows its entry. Thinks it keeps my bones warm. I allow.
Last night it was the moon who passed a joke Through her shining beams, in her ravenous tenderness Expecting the world to come around. It came.
My dreams are slim, on a diet, So they fit in the slots between reality, No, not a feministic jibe, It’s called survival.
The unconscious me crawls to The surface, Slowly peeling the onion petals Spacing as vision-in-lotus, I vacuum-walk towards the sky Nebula walking I can’t count the stars But grab some and stick It on my page,
The sylvan piece of art becomes the sky I wear on my head, The sky struggles to fit in the Torn piece of paper,
Ordinary sky, punctuated,
That chunk of air stopped using semi colons decades ago, For truth always settles between the lines When parenthesis lends shelter, Of what use is a period ?!
Mind is nomad secured from the warmth Of hand-patched quilt, crochet laced, And you wonder, if it is romanticism of the unknown, Or, naive flight of an adventurous mind…. The grass is straight and wet. You often mistake dew for rain. You may argue both are water. But will know the truth inside.
No. It did not rain yesterday. Not everyday does it rain.
Like Not everyday is Sunday and Caviar Some are Mondays. And for decorated gypsies—
Dreams are on diet and peace phantasmal…..
“Although the whole of this life were said to be nothing but a dream and the physical world nothing but a phantasm, I should call this dream or phatasm real enough, if, using reason well, we were never deceived by it.”-by Baron Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz
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