What Is A Dream?

I make a sacred picture of these words,
a mirror framed to show our latent fears.
A pool of hope and salted tears,
fantastic skies, and people formed from our slices, all us,
and nothing more,
in this warm vapour of our minds,
this enigma-world
that promises escape from brittle reality,
society, illusory control.

I make a sacred picture of these words,
An ink-blot formed to shine a blackened-ray,
at night.

Illusory control.
We are god and mortal, even
here we are slaves to even
ourselves, we are slaves
on tracks, on rails of fate,
we are slaves even here.

I make a sacred picture, to explore, examine, see.

I make a sacred picture
and it is me.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.