Poetry On Narrative: The Dream

Without having spoken,
I sat in silence
The aroma of heated air
Blesses the wind until
I part from my shadow
I shall meet it again,
One day.

For the eyes will always lie.
They will always wait to see
The right thing;
Their heaven
Sees over the earth
The vision blurred by the mind
The so insecure mind
Taints the vision
And creates its work of art

The soft pastels offend the harsh greyness
Scorching flame of passion,
Does so to the gentle darkness
Where must I see?
Where am I within it?
Outside of the border of the painting,
There lay eyes.

The different works upon the walls
The separated lines of the drawings
The matches against it follow
To the end of the hallway
For I thought there was no escape
From the twisting of the hall
The sense of hopelessness
The loneliness
The words lose all meaning

Burn the paintings.
See how the hollowed stone fits within it
The trunks of forests are filled
With empty air
How could it be any other way?

The smell of something aflame
The fire sprouts from the wax
The passion, the desire to live
To love in this deep, cavernous world
How I missed the point of it
Besides,
The melted candle still burns.

Smelt the ashes into a paste
And bring it to the masses
Enlighten them by the mystique of
The Dream.
Faded fallen figures with faceless expressions
Shall gaze at it
And look at it again

The horror of expression
The vulnerability of listening
The carelessness of saying
The glad spark from the masses.

The spark starts at the top
And melts away down to the bottom
Without sound,
Without air,
Without light,
It becomes nothing at all.