Thursday, February 1, 2018

Fresh Kills _ Cosmic Flows - Day 27


Cosmic Flows - Day 27

A flutter of eyelids,
ah, a quick path to sleep.
How long until, if at all, to
dreams and cosmic flows?
(Does one have the soul
of an artist?)
The canvas of night unravels
in less than predicable or
perfect forms.
Dreams. -
Cosmic flows.
What is the answer
to my - ?
I forget the questions.
Oh boy, here comes the ride.
The flow of brushstrokes
and sculpture's clay shape
a new beauty.
Faces of people are
seen and unseen.
Past residents of earth depart
while future friends assemble.
Memory is a tricky thing
in sorting out which is which.
Familiar faces blend with
faces masked.
Do I, did I, know, this,
these other people?
While a favorite time
can paint a backdrop
of night or day,
nothing seems focused
or even noticed.
Strange words. Noises.
Conversations repeat.
Am I hard of hearing?
Oh boy, a loop.
A loop repeats cosmic
messages?
Flow and freedom from care.
One's daytime, earthbound spirit
must soar while dreaming.
The energy flows.
Dreams are such wondrous things
most times,
almost like magic.
Colors do not greatly matter,
nor temperature,
so much as textures,
smooth walls, rough touch
faint adobe hues,
can sometimes frame
my dream picture.
Do I dream in black and white?
Noises. Conversations
with eloquent people,
those with whom I
might want to meet.
They are just like me
perhaps.
Is their spirit on furlough too,
in a dream as well?
Have our paths in essence
really crossed the way?
Is there a mission? A
purpose to this dream -
any dream?
Does the mind truly
wake not to another
but to true reality?
The mind does wander
besides wonder.
Is daytime - awakeness -
true reality or
the reality in another
realm of perceptions
full blown, of, from
cosmic connections?
Questions later, though
rarely during the process,
of the personal artform known
as this, the (my) dream?
All too soon as a favored niche
in repose is found,
all too soon the muse wears off.
Stardust, dreams, whatever
are shaken off with eyes
fluttering and blinking
into focus.
What is at hand is at hand.
Dreams or waking
all seem to fit perfectly
as they occur
and part of some
present and perfect now.



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