Who is she, tucked in her long and too-thin casket? Sit aside the mourners. Not a souls is known, not even my own, I think. A jittery man, red jumpsuit wrapped, plays broken keys, spews spoken hymns. Red backs into the bed. It tips. It rocks. The death mask within un-wrinkles with shock. Her brows twitch. Her lips narrow. Is she alive? Dead? Undead? The assembled are unbothered. Look back. Sleeper has shifted. She is mother, face convulsing, eyes rolling in REM rage. Stab of fear. Wash of revulsion. Seek solace from the mourners. They are unmoved. Breathe through the shock. Call upon cautious disbelief. This can't be real. Fumble through a reality check, "It's a dream. Of course it is. Just a dream. Just a dream." Look back. Mother contorts into grandmother. Heavily painted eyes rip open. She sits up. Face bitter. We lock eyes. She gives an unloving grin full of secrets, full of sin. My soul prickles with dread. The crowd are statues. "This is a dream!" I scream. Look back. Grandmother contorts into Yubaba. We stand suddenly face to face. "Give me a hug," she croaks through wrinkles, rippling wild. Recoil. Then, through the fear comes clambering some calm. I claim, "This is dream." Step toward the arisen. Fall into embrace. Frighteningly, absolute nothing inhabits her hold. Yubaba pulls away. She floats away. Red still croons fragmented tunes. The undead gives gifts to the statues still littered about. Slip into an icy, analytical space. "This is a dream. The walking dead. The waking dead. Re-awakening?"
Sailer They stab poles into earth bones. Hoist city sized swaths of fabric high. "We will right the world," they sing to simpering herds. In actuality, no rhyme or reason stands behind the helter-skelter sails. But the herds are pacified. In fraud they trust. Writer I am writing. Or perhaps righting the wrongs they wove across long, misleading lives. The hidden truths behind the tales will finally see the light.
04; 10 am. 1. I dreamt I was watching my granddaughter do some math. I was trying to pay a bill which was 50£. 2. I was then in my old bedroom looking intently at the deco, I wanted a new mirror for my dressing table. 3. I was riding a white horse bareback galloping round the forest and the rivers were wild. the horse called sovereign jumped in and I fell off we both went under but swam back up. -------------------- after those 3 dreams I tried to relax but was swamped with excitement, I think I wanted to LD then, but for some reason I was too stressed. I went back to sleep and had a blurred dream swimming under water and being able to breathe , in my dream I thought it was amazing and wouldn't come back up to the surface for a while, but unfortunately not quite lucid enough to realise I was dreaming, then I dreamt about about horses again.. -------------------- its true, dreams toward the end of the REM cycle get blurry, well at least I know when my REM cycle is at its strongest
Forked tongue splits a grin. Seeds of lies are sewn. Silence is safety. A sister and I Trip backward in time. We stroll our old halls. They are crowded, cold. Suddenly behold that I am birthday bare. I can't seem to care. This must be a dream. Reality Check. Yes! We are dreaming. No assertations. Instead, simply know and follow the flow of this cliche scene. Sister is frantic to find me attire. Allow her lead. Door to door to door. All locked. Floor to floor to floor. Half-cocked. Each turn sees us ignored. Suddenly he strides, dream within a dream. His eyes of twilight and his scarecrow grin cast magic across my lucid skin. His coat is offered. I accept. He goes his own way. His lingering scent leaves me wrapped in vulgar yearnings. But I am lucid. I know this trap. He is a sensual distraction. Reality check. Walk away. Sister wanders off to find some ride. I wait, dance half naked outside the institute of my youth. I'm dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Sister seems long gone. Bid the sun farewell. Pluck it from the sky. Admire its sharp shine in the hollow of my hand. Make a lucid wish. Now, blow out the sun. It lilts slowly away like a mess of milkweed fluff. Fall madly in love with its simple grace. Catch a luscious scent. Feel a hungry leer. Surge of temptation. I know he is near. "Who are we?" I ask. No answer. I spin. Fall flat on my back. Laughing, I stand, slip off the jacket, "Take it back? I am naked, not afraid." No answer. Toss the jacket onto rocks. Into silken grass I sprawl. Allow whatever will come, to come. I slip... sink... and fall.
18th Hamill Wall Wall is a canvas equally divided. In each rectangle he deftly splashes a smatter of hues, a scribble of line. His storyboard, complete after a short time. Can not decipher his spatters of soul. And he will not share his secret story by way of worthless words. He signs it simply, Mark. 19th Calenardhon I am medicine for a horse lord, worn. Naked, across night, he takes his fill. He spills into specter realms with the trilling of the dusk. Slumber now, to strength. White tree arises. Her sons dismount. Step past the whispers and spirits of stone. We speak of treaties and of tarnished thrones, of fires rekindled yet swift to wither. Where is medicine for our world's swift decay?
Updated 12-20-2024 at 02:57 PM by 101265