Are my dreams of the dead
dreams of purgatory
battered, wounded as they are?
Where I live now!
The mad struggle of the dead
in the vacuous corridors of time.
Really, they’ve gone
they don’t return, except as myths
to reinvent time.
Our time of broken dreams
‘creatures of tradition moulding a nature
that weeps not for us for the wounds
it heals, impervious
after it nurtured us into existence’
Blind Tiresias had warned.
As if we had a choice in this paradox
as if we could escape
the blunder which created us
the cosmic joke, where time
will destroy even the world
for time to be reborn.
In this dream world, where I
only seem to wake
to this small dance of words
a dance of phantoms with their shadows
where this poem shapes its becoming.
robin@artvilla.com
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