Is it enough to be a dreamer
a composer of realities
One that bends the lines
rounds corners and breaks light?
What is it to become the dream,
to personify a fantasy,
the walking image whom
manipulates its every angle?
The flesh of the imagination
is bound to the bones of perception
nourished by the blood of creativity
and courses through figurative vein
nails and hair become corrupt
growing and curling like nightmares
draping over and on beliefs and certainties
playing pretend at ones expense
trans-dimensional sketches
dance in poly-morphing rhythms asking
"Could a finite vision transcend
the perceptual walls of the unrefuted?"
It is felt as a sound
a knocking, pulsing vibration,
an oscillating electric punch,
the budding of a fiery orgasm
A broken chord plays whole notes
and dissonance emerges through the chroma
polished by smooth resolving concord
birthing temporary silences between silences
Hallucination stretches
proposing total faith in the immediately visible,
or a fear cloaked in the invisible,
perhaps the invisible cloaked in fear
There is something permanent in an idea
like a photograph, it can be seen
and like a memory, it can be photographed
half forgotten in a dusty index of pictures
