Flowers
A question of blooming,
encountering yourself,
fabricating luminous
colors of hope.
A question of understanding,
creating yourself,
imagining inspirational
moments of love.
A question of believing,
loving yourself,
giving compassionate
strings of action.
A matter of blooming,
creating flowers
out of loners,
out of activists,
out of lovers,
out of pacifists,
out of us.
[ Flowers were everywhere. You could see a building or tree, but from afar they looked as a gigantic flowers.
I realized at last I was inside a lucid dream. I had not lived one of those before.
If I were inside such a dream, I could do whatever I wanted, so I created your image. The flowers vanished, and I was floating in the air. I asked you,” Could you take me home?
“I cannot take you where you already are.” ]
Playground
If we could return
to the state of birth,
I would remember to enjoy,
the days of play,
the days made plenty of you.
If I could rejoice,
include you in my play,
I would caress your skin
trembling for a kiss
until the sky turned bliss.
If I am there,
touching heaven with my love,
could I bake a day of cake?
could I fly with a kiss to play?
could I try remembering you as a child,
the state of happiness,
cause’ I love you?
[ “You are not here.” I shouted. I felt some kind of pain because I knew you were an illusion. I didn’t want you to go, but I couldn’t control my inner self. There was a great difference in between what I thought I wanted, and what I really wanted.
You disappeared, and a flower replaced you.
This time, I really woke up. Did I? Was this the reality?
I had thought I had woken up before, but it had been unreal, could this be another dream disgusted of reality?
How can I distinguish reality from dreams if I am dreaming?
I can’t recall a dream where I ask myself this, so perhaps I may never know... ]
True
Inside disguised faces,
lies a feared truth,
life is not as it seems
to our senses.
Inside painful days,
lies a unbelievable truth,
life is not as it seems
to our minds.
It seems, but is not.
It believes, but is not.
It resembles, but is not.
Outside, it all seems real,
inside, it all seems unreal,
as a dream…
as an unknown infinity…
as an unopened present…
Is it true?
Is it me?
Am I the remembered past
or the unnamed future?
Am I none?
Where do I go
when I sleep?
Where am I
as I am awake?
Who is being insulted?
Who is being hurt?
Who is being… me?
Who is true?
Mind, senses, fears,
or something else?
I love you.
[ I was lying down. I felt terribly light, as if I were a feather on top of the bed. I imagined much sensations were a result of an irregular rest.
Perhaps, I could let myself go into the roams of the unconsciousness for about forty five more minutes.
Slowly, I began transporting me to another reality. ]