To Dream Away (a poem)

Now I lay me down to sleep, to dream away
Transported to underground realms
Dreaming in color, bright sounds
No longer astounded by the full-length movies
That play in my head at darkness

I decipher codes, break through modes
In which my inner eye tells me riddles
Prophecies of sudden global disasters
Screams and shouts from dark matter

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Cold Cemetery Nights (microfiction)

Out here in the cold cemetery nights, the greenish-blue tint of my death fantasies come alive. I’m not much a fan of the waking hours; the dead are more on my level, the way they hold nothing back when they speak to me and tell me of their underground dreams and experiences. I think it was my father who said, when I was just a young boy, that, “The dead hold secrets the living can learn from, if only we listen to the whispers of the night.”

Cold cemetery nights, not such a fright to me. Others have rebuked me for my twilight walks, stalking among the graves, but I ignore them. The gravedigger works overtime every night; I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive. I see him digging these deep holes most nights, allowing the souls to re-enter the world. The gravedigger’s name is Cain – he has the brightest blue eyes, a slim yet muscular frame, and hands so calloused they bleed every night.

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Nightmare Within the Nightmare (microfiction)

Along the river, the dream skyline beckons to me. Awash in frosted colors of winter, a mixture of cool blues, greens, and yellows, each light is a thousand people burning and dying away. Those high skyscrapers and towers shooting from cold, neon concrete, and those burning people screaming in agony in unison, is the perfect nightmare chorus for this evening.

The river water reflects the shades of my character flaws. A little bit of gluttony, lust, pride, and other deadly sins, a watery grave to put them in. I’m approaching the harbor with my doppelgänger, a slightly deformed version of myself; the eyes are too sunken, the teeth too sharp, and the appetite too large.

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Keep My Secret (a poem)

Outside the cold dream-realm
There’s a town on the outskirts
Where we have all felt
Compelled to take a stand
Against the demons within ourselves

We banged the gates down
We made impossible demands
And we were left stranded
In the cold dream-realm lands

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Black Snow (a poem)

The blown flowers fell and filled my lap
And the sensation was so strange,
Like being sucked into a dream
That was not my own, but the
trances of hermits in open
Fields filled with many suns

I am my father’s son, I know,
Because I refuse to believe what
mass media tells me,
Advertisements soak my skull
Like bloody sponges, secreting
Trivial information and data
Collected by régime clerks

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Door to the Subconscious (a haibun)

The radiant room inside your mind – lit with bright pinks, purples, and blues. Deep inside the dream world, we’ve accessed your subconscious. Down the narrow halls, leading to forbidden desires. What lies beyond the door?

Beyond the bright door
Lies memories that make you
And also break you

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