THE EDGE OF DREAMS

On the razor edge of dreams
the periphery of consciousness
a face appears, and I am left to wonder
who this person is, who he might be.
At first he is a child
with a pixie cut, a bowl placed
over the head, the bangs cut
without considering the face peering out
and others peering in.
But, as sleep washing the last
sands of consciousness out
to the sea of Morpheus,
the face morphs and
it is Science Officer Spock
who is peering back at me,
his ears pointed to the heavens
reminding me, as I slip
into Morpheus’ orbit
that I can yet
live long and prosper.

HEART OF NIGHT

The morphology of dreams
is partially reliant
on the whims of a single
god, and Morpheus
is, to say the least,
a truly fickle bastard
who dangles before us
joy and nightmare
each always just
out of reach, but never
out of sight or hearing.
So we are left
to grasp like marionettes
operated by an unseen hand.

TRANSFORMATION

There was a time, once, when
the most everything was metaphorical.
That was before the great metamorphosis
when everything was suddenly malleable.
No one was quite certain just what happened.
Most thought it was in the dead of night
when they, and most everyone else was
firmly in the grip of Morpheus, who was,
all knew, a shape shifter given easily
to change, a chameleon who relished
the amazement of people who
never could hope to see change coming.
When the clouds that foretold the future
were finally carried off, replaced
by the harsh light of the sun.
Then it all became clear,
the River flowed again, and
you stepped in knowing
it was a step you could never take again,
and at that moment the Buddha smiled.