The Forest of Dreams
In the Forest of Dreams,
in the realm of wishful stories,
that are sometimes fable-like,
that we only find logical while asleep,
we walk within a sunlit land
that sprouts slender chartreuse limbs
erected from kiwi soft hues,
rooted in immaculate Fertility.
In the Forest of Dreams,
we weave themes of desire,
of schemes, of memory.
We awake and wish they were reality.
Or we are grateful to emerge, from sleep,
for we might have just witnessed
ourselves within a light dove grey tomb
circular like eternally connected lines,
that change hue with the wind and rain,
that etch a new terrain; that rot a face.
In the Forest of Dreams a gold dust wish is fulfilled.
A Spirit sifts the glitter on the surface
of a sea at noon, a lake in the evening;
of diamond snow, of a body jeweled, pinueting.
To feel the inception of a star's light,
to reach for life as a spiraling arm of our galaxy.
To turn and fold our colorful petals
into our core, soft and full of nectar.
To realize in the Forest of Dreams
our hands can touch the sun,
without scathe; without annihilation;
we can stoke the flames, we can burn.
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