Uprooted Dreams

(collab of Silentio and Prophet)


“...it nonetheless takes me into a landscape,
dreamlike, disheveled, dim and neglected,
towering, crumbling edifices,
bridges to nowhere, unfinished,
and yet with tiny life,
speaking something in the dusk,
something unspeakable...”

A clear world collides
with dense, opaque underworld --
a visceral acid gnaws away
at dreams unrealized.

I only just remembered it,
what it was like to be there,
then memory was ripped from my head,
and I am once again forced to live
in a world of darkness.
A world of forgetting.

Remembrance too vile to reach form--
dim and dimming
into inscrutable impulses
and all manner of action;
action not to be undone
because the light
has brought out
its receding borders.

It was there in the edge of my mind,
another world much more real,
but it could not be brought into focus,
at this phase of thought and existence.
Like something viewed
out of the corner of your eyes,
just to dart from your peripheral vision,
and field of perspective,
and before you could turn your head,
it's gone.

I walked in the midst
of shards and uprooted dreams,
whispering their moribund secrets to me,
secrets impenetrable and deathless;
the flowers announce their impassivity.

Dreams can only be uprooted for so long,
before they begin to die.
Dreams can be transplanted,
but they need plenty of care and water of life.
They must be buried within the earth,
and given plenty of light,
and then they can draw power,
and grow up to the sky,
before they die.

Concealed within its bosom,
wrapped in its illusory strands,
is the intimation of alienated reality;
dreams are birds of night
bearing the message of a remote dawn.

The reality of the morn
is always ever present in the night.
The rooster sleeps with one eye open,
just waiting to crow
for a brand new day.
Just dreaming all night
of fulfilling one's purpose.
Even through the night,
the birds of day
are plotting and planning
their next move

My inconsolable soul pants after joy,
ever receding,
swifter than any grief,
lighter than any denseness --
and here I am,
half covered
in the gossamer of winter.

As I walk in silence,
I find these uprooted dreams are my own
Lost in between the solitude of my convictions,
and the magical realism apparent in my childhood,
I stand on the edge,
at one with the other.

Flow to the cosmic ocean,
leave the past behind,
Be free.