A World, Not My Own
A poem about last night's dream
Stairs of cold marble worn with the steps of time Hallways long and narrow tiled in coloured symbolic artistry, that lead to secret chambers.
A view on a world, not my own.
A tree so large vibrating pure energy. I watch the spectacle from the balcony. Leaves falling in perfect choreography. laying down design and geometry.
A roof of living roots so ancient no one knows when the seed was planted.
Vermillion, magenta and orche with threads of gold draped over women with depth in their eyes and smiles that open your heart
to the mystery within.
Warm skin and exotic perfume, amongst the flowers and the spice of life.
My senses on overload as I drink it all in.
I am a tourist in a dream In a world
not my own.
Sometimes my dreams are so vivid. I am there in it all, but I am also the observer. This morning I wrote what I could recall. I painted and drew the artwork the night before I dreamt.