poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2007
Whatever my mind thinks
I falter, I wake up, I blink.
And then my dreams are nonexistent, but a part of my subliminal mind.
Sometimes when I fall asleep and dream, fragments of old dreams I find.
And I think or I dream or I think in my dream or I feel a slight sense of dejavu.
So tell me, can you dream? Do you scream in your dreams and do you forget
your themes too?
I frankly don't care they all float in my air and my dream catcher will them all catch.
Then I burn my dreams and I hear their screams at the fuzzy flare of a match.
Which dreams have I forgotten which dreams have I dreamt have I dreamt about fortune or love or resent?
Are my dreams true is there a meaning is it meant? To my friends, my dreams, I lent.
Will I get it back in a box or a sack or will they be burned down to ashes?
I hung up a net in the roof of my tent and hope that it all bad dreams catches.
But when I am lonely or when I feel sick or when I've eaten a batch of icecream too quick.
I dream while I'm awake about war and cake and the great deeds I didn't do and former mistakes
and the stupid I've said and the ants in my bed and when they asked me the question and my face turned red
and the boat that I sail and I cling to the rail and the immortality I gain to forever prevail!
All the dreams play a part, all the dreams from the start, that I dream during daylight from mind not from heart.
Then when I go to sleep the daily daydreams me seek and I sail without boundaries over waves so steep.
And I fall in the white brushing paintlike foam, and I fall out of bed in my saintlike home.
And I stare at the pitchblack darkness around.
So quite. No noise. No music.