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 my inner home. It was written in a want for answers that could not negotiate the questions that descend the frightened mind. 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 the fear of dying.

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 could be so unhinged to birth such dream out of a 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

and then establish perpetual residence in a 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

such utter joy, such dismal pain, must be scripted from both a devil and a God!