That May Be, 7 (128.)

I may have to accept
that I am a voracious dream eater,
extending my hungry snout
into others’ mind clouds
to inhale every idea that condenses therein.

These puffs of cerebral smoke
fill my skull with dancing lights,
and they illumine
the paintings nestled in the darkness of my brain.
If I connect my mental dots,
a constellation forms at last,
and I may use it to outline lessons from my past.

Lay the lesson over the painting,
mix the dreams of others on my palette,
and create something new.
There is a thick base layer growing in my head,
and it may be
that I do not know
where my paint ends and another’s begins.

I do not go begging for inspiration,
but my snuffling snout
is ever snatching it from the ether,
and I cannot go a single day
without tasting at least a snippet of a dream.
Fill my fridge with cerebral snacks
and I will keep coming back to open the door
again and again, until I get
bored of that flavor, and do what I can
to craft a new one.

The paint, the paint,
oh, its tastes!
I cannot waste these misty visions,
they lead me on and on through winding woods
and spiraling skies,
and I surmise
the door at the end of reality’s borders
leads not to oblivion,
but to paradise!
Zee lah, hee haw, why just one door,
I must destroy the veil!

The dreams are multitudinous,
and the city multifaceted,
the mountains gain strength under us
while the oceans keep on fattening.
The world is a better dream eater
than I shall ever be,
but I still build my boat
and sail the nightmare sea.
If one place grows from all these struggles,
I desire
its everything,
the ardor and the splendor
of its shaking the trammels of hardship.
Roots twine over the chains
and this place,
this earthy haven
pushes dreams slow through iron.

Paint always supersedes the canvas.
Just don’t forget
there must always be
a canvas.


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