Are dreams a rehearsal for death’s long sleep?
I am walking backwards into this fog--
Coolness is touched but not felt
My perception setting is muggy.
The seekers so often do not become finders,
But in the mist the hope is to connect again
To another transparent soul
In this haze of pre-curtain heaven.
But illusions are fragmented glimpses,
In my movie-making nocturne.
Floating above all the giggles in the shadows
Becomes crowded sunshine pools of pleasure.