DREAMLAND

I eagerly anticipate each night's sojourn
into profound adventures,
never knowing who or what awaits me there.
But remembering next morning is the problem.
The snippets I do remember are only vague images,
yet are incredibly seductive and tantalising.

My Dreamland is a compensatory tabernacle, it seems.
And the hallowed sanctity of it -
an escape from a waking reality of isolation and pain.
No wonder I crave nightfall.
Little wonder I wake and think, " No! No!"

What is the meaning
of this nightly sorcery, this dream cult
of which I am High Priestess?
Has my life morphed into some time-honoured legend?

Day-world is an endless torrent of obstacles
that I long to sidestep - without knowing
how it came to this,
or where such notions followed me from,
with their sombre depressing coldness. Each night though
I come alive with expectancy,
craving, and thrilling suspense.
Is it really worth it though, when each morning I simply forget again?
Am drawn back into the dull ordinariness
of a mad dog-eat-dog existence
that suffocates the Spirit and deadens the senses?
But all night, I am in my element:
am central character
in an epic serial drama
in which my presence has value.

How far removed from daily life!
Kind words instead of criticism,
hugs instead of rejections,
the smiles and unconditional acceptance
from those of the subtler planes - all this
is the reality of my true abode.
Our eyes reveal the fundamental truth
within their depths:
wakingland is the illusion...

and we are walkers between the worlds.