I would like to thank
Waking Dream- Author: Robert Dye
These dreams etched within a winding wrinkle,
I wake to feel the fleeting visions faintly linger,
Like the vague crescent white of the moon,
Dissipated against the brilliant blues of day.
So curious to know this other realm of consciousness,
That’s plucked from the branches of reality,
Like leaves slipping away with rushing winds,
Descending into currents of so many wild streams,
Soaking their dried veins, increasingly saturated,
Drowning their bodies into the rough, grainy silt.
The weight of water oppressing once precious,
Fragile blossomed memories of towering trees,
Burying them into the ever deepening, dark mud.
All of these once thriving sprouts of existence,
From deterioration become recycled, regenerated,
To the miniscule shreds of minerals and nutrients,
Which await extraction by other far reaching roots.
While in the slumber of the cold, barren, windblown tree,
I wonder, does it dream and long to be anew, full and free?