Cobwebs of Dreams

The cobwebs of dreams It was a clear day…Too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen, sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked how old she was, ninety-two she said; knew I was trapped in a dream she didn`t live that long. By the slow river I saw furniture drifted, my brother said it was people who lived downstream but bought furniture upstream and to save on the transport dumped the stuff in the river and relatives picked it up further down. Sometimes a table or a chair got lost a risk they were willing to take. I knew this too was a dream. Walked along a soft road in a forest, but something was wrong there was a strange red light emitting from trees; I was trapped inside a painting by a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife. I think it is morning, perhaps not, sometimes the line between and the subconscious emerges, maybe yesterday is today.