~ a poem

To sleep: perchance to dream: Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death
What dreams may come


In their theaters
Through their windows
At their thresholds
And beyond them

Our unconscious envisions entire worlds
With aeons of imagined halls and holds

Peopled with shadows
Known and unacknowledged
Dancing through realms of impossible problems
Wading along the shores of this endless ocean
Playing in the windswept fields of infinite wildflowers
Singing with a voice we do not recognize
Running from monsters that we carry

We chip away at our codes and compensations
The stones of our desires weather and fissure and reveal
Manifesting masks to the personae in our hearts
Projecting the hands to grapple them from our restless features
Latent wishes emerge to be embraced with sincerest cheer
Or cast into bottomless chasms not even echoing
Unfulfilled and never to be seen again

Until, in awakening, we craft the content of the next
Borne of bits of the last
Borne of shades of the first
Borne of everything that has ever come into conscious contact

The nightscape beckons us
Every day
Every night
Our dreamscapes shape us
Every one
Every image
Those planescapes take us
Every improbability
Every escape
Every bewildering mixup and eventuality
They build such soulscapes

In our sleeps,
what will we find?
In our waking,
we may decide.

For now.