Dreams

Dreams, are not they the funniest of things?
They morph themselves into sticky thoughts
throw your rationale down into the depths
take you for a blissful ride in silver chariots
across the never ending plains full of rainbows
to a place that does not really exist but does.
Uncertainty principle? Heisenberg is proud.

Dreams, are not they the most powerful?
They show you a different, a parallel universe
set you up in a impish trap of useless musings
demand you to question, rebel, and fight.
Lure you to cross into the land of unknowns
from a perfectly fitting contemporary scene
make a wanderer out of your once content self.

Dreams, are not they the cruelest of all?
They are made of most delicate, fragile crystal.
At the slightest touch of the wind, they collapse
a mere reasoning with reality, they shatter
into a thousand, million, billion different pieces
and they grip your heart tightly and crush it
until there is none of it left and whatever remains
vanishes into a deep, emotionless black hole!

Beyond Invisible

Yellow October moon shines on clouds of steel gray
wind ripples through the silent mist of blues
strange creatures weep big deep red tears
darkness swirls around in concentric circles
the willow yawns, white wings stretch across
restless pacing, honey scented breath, impatient
at last, the cavern whispers softly, a crypt, a secret
and everything listens in absolute stillness.
And a fate forever is sealed, fairly unnoticed!

Dull dappled play of leaves and light
chimerical shadows on strings of night
a dangerous sparkle, raw umber eyes
burnt sienna colored dreams dance alive
entwined naked bodies glisten with desire
passion, pure lust, carnal, stifled vacuum
a flash of nails, a droplet, lascivious war
the past dissolves into a place beyond reach
questions don't matter, future does not exist
pure, absolute wonder, a cry of intense melancholy.

The wings flutter, eyelids open slowly, sleepily
harsh neon lights glitter eerily through the window
damp air carries the present back into the room.
A lapse in memory, a barren landscape
time dissipates into the arms of oblivion.