What is this dream?

Drops of sound in ripples of imagination,

Cascading memories of formless color,

Meandering rivers of infinity.

Transcendent beauty beyond one’s grasp,

Bubbles of faces loosened from the void,

Never to surface,

Endless.

Blind folded peasants laboring the forbidden fruits,

Served to the king within the growing maze.

A cosmos of colliding plots,

Scribed by the author behind the closed eye.

Folded is this canvas,

Continuously pressed and squeezed to a point of light.

It’s morning.