A wide, bell-shaped cathedral
loomed large as I slept
over and over as it revived me
as I awoke
I flinched
The awoken.
A sweat poured from the breasts at the ribcage junction.
Dreams are like time, but I keep them anyways
confined within a glass beaker.
The dreams are awash
with preserved objects and beings.
Everything and nothing is there at night.
Symbols of unused love are both valid and invalid.
As an ever-repeating record, the Dream is
announcing alerts continuously,
in constant parody.
Such a nightmare would make anyone shiver.
Splits in two, strange
strange
strangely glassy, erotic
tablecloths set into a chest.
Or not, for life is a circus,
the tip: suss out the clown from the ringmaster.
Leila Samarrai 