Dreams are timeless time animist creations,
sonnets of somnolent imagination,
they are prostitutes of random memory.
The mind wears hobnailed jackboots,
its tactic to tread with worn cleated soles,
feet stomping through an oneirologist party.
Brief shadows pass silently without speaking,
lurking just on the edge of what is known,
flirting casualties of a long cold forgotten past.
The waiting dark graveyard is full of bodies,
all unwilling embalmed participants caught by life,
I wonder, do they twitch and dream too.
The script is written by a cruel comic mime,
a perverted titular Morpheus goatsucker,
the dual manifestation of the Upanishads.
When at last we hold our breath forever,
will the distant dim beacon of oblivion beckon,
or, will we dream an eternal Dharmic dream.
©2013, Donald Harbour