Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Clear light on a summer morning,
A horizon, dizzy in a haze of impending heat,
Grasslands ripe to burn lay drying,
What was green is now yellowed and brittle,
Large black birds shriek for the sun they follow,
Thirsting creatures in dark holes lay dying,
Death does not come to these lands in winter,
But with the clear light of a southern summer day.
Sometimes, I can lose myself for days,
Time passes quickly, like a rapid heartbeat,
When I find myself again, something is always different,
Following some initial confusion, where I don’t know where I’ve been,
I’m unsure just how long I have been the other me,
Which me was I? Was I kind or cruel, happy, sad, or withdrawn,
Sometimes I can lose myself for days,
And now, I no longer know which me is real.
Swirling colours, vivid and blinding, pulsate, in a cellophane coloured a sky,
A great blue door is beset by godly hands, vibrating in the colourful scene,
The hands hold a staircase in place, locked in an alien landscape,
Above the door a mighty skull sits, adorned with a golden lock,
Within the keyhole spins a whirlpool of stars,
The sudden arrival of the inner self is a spectacle to behold,
The door swings open revealing the inner self, naked and skeletal,
It glows, beautiful and newborn, emitting a soft blue light from its glassy bones,
My mind is stalled at this point, lost within the colours, one for every hurt,
The spiralling sky becomes a bright portal, spinning, slow, warm and inviting,
The inner self leaves its essence, before fading into that spiralling light,
Shadows fill with starlight, as a swirling green nebula slowly erases the vision,
I awaken in sudden darkness, the stars have faded, and life is reality once more.
My need to overcome reality is so strong lately,
I attempt to address profound childhood fears,
What happens when both creators are gone,
What do I become, how do I decide my path forward,
Nothing seems obvious, everything feels clouded,
What decisions do I need to make, what is important,
I feel lost, amiss, like I’m waiting for an unnamed event,
How can I take stock of things when it comes, my hurt, my pain,
And still administer the wishes of another,
There is no comfort here, only loss.
You can’t exist with your head in the clouds,
For one reason, clouds fade,
They are invisible on a clear day,
Although prominent during a storm,
They quickly make way for blue skies,
You see, clouds are not consistent,
They lack any solid substance,
Constantly unstable and unreliable,
They are an illusion of escape and freedom,
Within themselves, they are empty.
The full moon overhead gazes down like a great pale eye,
I lay, eyes open, wishing I was lost in the land of dreams,
Instead, I find myself trapped within an awakened mind,
Alone, and without comfort, I try to unlock the doors of sleep,
Every uneasy cough pushes me a step away from serenity,
The world is dark, still and warm outside my open window,
It is now 4am, the time for lucid dreaming has past,
The doorway to the world of dreams remains unreachable,
I adjust my position, bedsheets entangle my feet,
My neck aches, and my body groans with digestive intent,
As the great moon above casts its pale eye downward,
An aircraft laden with sleepers, cuts through the silent sky,
My mind only craves sleep, I can feel the doorway approaching,
I write to drift off, hoping that the doors of sleep will open soon,
My weary eyes are the keys that unlock the realm of dreams,
May the doors of sleep slam closed behind me,
So that I can awaken again in the light of the new morning sun.
The sound of ocean waves drives out the death-like silence,
Awakening, as the body sinks beneath the surface of the ocean of souls,
Screaming in silence, it is taken by the dark creatures it now belongs to,
A thousand Invisible arms, wrap, constrict and pull at their prey,
The lungs fill, the scream continues, subdued, and eyes sting in salty brine,
The sky is lit by a million stars that sparkle and dance upon the surface,
As the sea floor is reached, a cloud of black sand swirls and cloaks,
Still staring, still screaming silently, the final resting place has been procured.
A blue cubed dream cell vibrates with a deep resonating hum,
It contains nothing but an elderly man with long white hair and blue robes,
The dream cells translucent walls glow and dim in time with the hum,
The occupant slowly and continuously paces the perimeter of the room,
The bright cube is surrounded by a beautiful deep space panorama,
The dream cell rotates, powered by the occupant’s relentless trek,
With the Earth far in the distance, the rotating cell outwardly shines,
From the surface of that planet, the cube itself appears as a distant star.
It’s complicated to share where I’m at,
Because I don’t really feel like myself,
I feel bisected, slighted, and typically ignored,
I’m fed up, tired of everything going wrong,
I am not invisible, I matter,
Perhaps I’m unwell, does that register?
I am unhappy, old, fat and depressed,
In another fixed race where I’m in last place.
What does it take to get by easily?
I don’t need a win, I just need a place,
Where life doesn’t constantly,
Kick sand in my face.
Still awake, he spent the morning dreaming,
Over-indulging in a world he created for the purpose of escape,
Unable to do so, he became disoriented and eventually lost,
He was found drowned, washed up on the shores of the dreaming sea,
In the waking world he disappeared, and nobody noticed his absence,
For he was never fully there, his existence was semi-transparent,
He kept one foot in the present, and the other firmly in the dream realm,
Fruitful was the Yeoman, this cultivator of vast dreamlands,
He sort solace through imagination, and found comfort in the world of dreams,
A rider of two storms, but ultimately he became the master of none.
Dan Verkys 