Behind Closed Lids
Behind closed lids
A labyrinth of bygones
And illusory foreshadowings
A haunted landscape
With pathways worn
From weary traversings
Overlapping, twisted and tangled
Like unkempt hair,
roots, wrinkles, veins
They lead into dense forests
Where great trunks of insecurity
Reach high
And conspire a canopy
Impenetrable to illumination
That the thorns and hard branches
Of the undergrowth
Self doubt
May lash and shred and tear
The tender flesh
Of the lost
Blind child
They lead past sparkling meadows of fancy
Frightful sirens
Calls of future fantasy
Mirages
That on approach give way
To the barren wastelands
Of harsh realities
And dreams deferred
They lead over landmarks
Fond and familiar
That yield fresh water laughter
But all too often
Turn to thick pools
Of the rotted milk of regret
Or evaporate
Into a tantalizing, torturous mist
Of impotent antiquities
Incapable of satiating thirst
A landscape populated by
Phalanxes of foot soldiers
Of should have saids
And should have dones
And roving wild packs
Of the vicious beasts
Of what they think of me’s
And beautiful singing birds
Colors vivid, exquisite,
How it could be’s
That flutter and fly so close
Yet out of reach
Ever out of reach
And I pray
And I pray
And I pray
To remember how
To open my eyes
A labyrinth of bygones
And illusory foreshadowings
A haunted landscape
With pathways worn
From weary traversings
Overlapping, twisted and tangled
Like unkempt hair,
roots, wrinkles, veins
They lead into dense forests
Where great trunks of insecurity
Reach high
And conspire a canopy
Impenetrable to illumination
That the thorns and hard branches
Of the undergrowth
Self doubt
May lash and shred and tear
The tender flesh
Of the lost
Blind child
They lead past sparkling meadows of fancy
Frightful sirens
Calls of future fantasy
Mirages
That on approach give way
To the barren wastelands
Of harsh realities
And dreams deferred
They lead over landmarks
Fond and familiar
That yield fresh water laughter
But all too often
Turn to thick pools
Of the rotted milk of regret
Or evaporate
Into a tantalizing, torturous mist
Of impotent antiquities
Incapable of satiating thirst
A landscape populated by
Phalanxes of foot soldiers
Of should have saids
And should have dones
And roving wild packs
Of the vicious beasts
Of what they think of me’s
And beautiful singing birds
Colors vivid, exquisite,
How it could be’s
That flutter and fly so close
Yet out of reach
Ever out of reach
And I pray
And I pray
And I pray
To remember how
To open my eyes
posted by Lee at 9:04 AM
3 Comments:
You have vividly and with great detail described the wonders that await me when I close my eyes in sleep, and try to shake off when I wake. I don't know if you mean this to be a literal description of a dreamworld or of the world of illusory (waking) ideas. I suppose it could be both. Either way, waking is to a truer state of consciousness (I hope).
It is now 2 AM and I will stop to go to sleep. (wish me luck) I don't feel rested
if I remember my dreams, since they are as you describe. (VERY tiring!)
But your writing is very enjoyable to read, quite so.
In all aspects of life, this rings true - whether we call the state sleep or conscious, awake or super conscious we struggle with states of mind and spirit as in a war to find a destination of extrems or somewhere in between. And we pray that our direction is true to our soul. Your images are complex and thought provoking. I read the poem several times over the past comple of days and I still cannot find the words to comment on it adequately. It's awesome!
I find the hyperbole and wild overstatement in this poem to be charming, witty, and bring a smile.
A tribute to your skill!
Of course, the subject of the poem--the human mind-- is wildly overstated by habit, as you describe.
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