Life Could Never Be Imagined!
This was written in the hours preceding the wait of a prognosis from a doctor I did not know, in sterile halls too far from home. It was written in the want for answers that can not negotiate questions for which the answer will not satisfy. I remain, neither less nor more than the pain and joy which will inevitably script my days, just a human vessel holding measures both of gladness and despair. Regardless of my want, both rain with such intensity that I can not distinguish which is wet and which is dry, but, I am made alive which ever falls upon my life. Either way, I find both the devil and my God within these sterile halls. One or both shall script the coming hour; One too terrible to bear or one too bright to occupy a dream.
What if its all a dream, an evolving fictitious fantasy
Just a want, hatched in the light of my own fading reflection
giving birth in wombs pregnant with illusion?
Just an unfolding dream, a fleeing wisp of unconscious sleep
reaching outward, upward, downward, but never where I really am?
What if its all a dream just leaking from my sleep
leaking from the still of some distant and elusive vapor
that slips the light calling through cracks in walls that keep my mind?
keeping the image of an imprinted life stolen in a brief escape
then returning, looking out from the tomb that keeps the dream.
What if its all a dream, you and I and life?
Just a puff of fleeting subconscious fog
at the whim of outer winds which then current illusions
writing them in scattered pretenses which we read
upon the pages we call days, living vicariously in disturbed dreams.
What if its all a dream, love and days, you and me
just invisible hope projected on the surface of a distant vapor?
No! It must be real, such an unscripted and demented dream
could never find a mind so mad or insanity so craft
to script moments so disturbed, so utterly deranged.
What mind is so unhinged to birth dream out of dark and deep despair?
That would cut so deep the human heart and amputate the pulse
What fiend would bandage wounds in coming episodes?
There is no mind so unbalanced as to dream itself the pain
that would then invade the sanctity of such created fantasy.
No! It is real. Even we ourselves can not corrupt with such efficiency
the script that spills upon the pages of our unfolding lives.
There is no madness, mad enough, to pen such that the days will write.
No deep so deep from which to draw, with human reach, such a disturbing tale.
No, surely we would instead bury the madness beneath moments of human splendor.
It is not a dream. It is the ecstasy of hope and rising joy
Challenged, confronted, met and mustered, pitched against the uninvited.
From the unfolding script that tells of victories and defeats
the unimaginable reality that lacks the courage to live in dreams
is instead, slung indiscriminately from the quiver of our days.
We are not mad or insane. We are the conquerors of the unfathomable
the unimaginable, the un-dreamable, keepers of the incomprehensible.
We are the warriors of every battle not yet come, of pains and joys, yet unborn.
We are the sanity that dresses every madness, yet unscripted by the days.
The future light that hurls itself against every coming and insidious unborn dark .
No, we are not a dream. We are the very real, the unrehearsed, the unprepared.
We are the alive. Born to fill the approaching and unlived moment
with every real and stubborn breath that braves to leave our lungs.
To scream in opposition, to rail against the script that begs from us, surrender
until we are dragged and torn from the clock that mimics the beating of our heart
Life is the spark that ignites our souls, that blazes in the furnace from flicker to flame
It heats the ink with a passion needed to fever the scripting of unfolding hours
and with defiance, writes the pages that will not perish from either pain or joy
No. It is not a dream. There are no minds so mad, nor hearts so near divine
to script a life so bright or dark from either fantasy or dream.
There is no light so bright nor dark so black that a human mind contrive
the utter joy, the dismal pain, must be scripted from both a devil and a God!