The Dreamer of Ants The dreamer of ants, whispers And the night walkers enter. The house opens, unfolds – enfolds – doors close and our dream eyes open: The only way out is in. There is no time-trace-place, so we must go deeper. Even deeper. Ever deeper. In the boy’s haunted room, there’s a blindfolded girl reading from a book of dreams She kneels in the dark in so many ways While oceans crash against her skirted cliffs And we stand breathless; deathless. In a Moorish castle on stilts at the crossroads of all worlds Strings pluck the paths of the dreamers’ dreams. We hear, fear, feel and see everything, yet remember nothing. There is no time-trace-place, so we must go deeper. Ever deeper. Onward, sleeper. Upon our knees in a Shinto temple, wind whistles enchantments through us While red ribbons and bows tie us to our selves And all our dark reflections. As above At the office window trumpets play a serenade to those who scramble As below In the cold of a leafless Irish garden. In a cabin in the woods, voices creak their messages – A discordant wilderness – Brought from the mouth of the Canadian wilds. There is no time-trace-place, so we must go deeper. Ever deeper. O nightmare keeper. The red man floats in a sea of memory with an Origami bird pecking at his chest Because time is different here. So different. So: Hear! The dreamer of ants, whispers And the night wakers remember. Comments are closed.
|
time is different here...
|