Have you ever taken notice
of cracks on your ceiling
while lying supine
under organdy sheets?
Your first look…peripheral,
shadow or illusion,
your mystic side rears,
when the Eye momentarily
captures a glint
of an abstract conclusion,
your Mind walks away
from Logics parallel-
R E A S O N…
such a manic paradox,
manifesting presentations
you cannot ignore-
hauntingly prompts you to stare,
and query the existence
of shape, size and mission,
be it cobwebs or spirits,
doesn’t matter what or why,
it’s all an obsession
’bout majique in black,
majique in white,
from dis-ordered observation;
impression, repetition…repetition…
………………. ……repetition.
Ever notice when the Mind
yens to stray from Logic,
how its waver becomes
a metamorphosis,
without Rapid-Eye movement
for this is not a Dream;
it’s all about image and prescience.
And have you ever noticed-
the more you obsess
on these lines, simple lines,
some criss-crossed, some jagged,
that at some point these lines
appear so much closer
to my vantage point, and-
ostensibly moving towards you,
in dimensional free-fall,
astonishingly colorful
to the crave of my lid-shut Iris.
Still, you find myself following
the jagged and the criss-crossed,
with a verve that bares
no equal obsession,
though you know it’s all illusion,
and tomorrow if you wake
the crack be where it was last night
thin, and serpentine-
in texture, in pattern,
and nothing else to speak of,
or so it seemed at the time;
when suddenly, the ceiling
bristles and collapses,
bedaubing my flesh
with cobwebs and spackle…
as you scream from the cockles
of your soot smoky larynx-
THAT’S ENOUGH!
You wake wake up…call in sick,
after calling a Mason,
who’s busy drawing symbols
of Paragons that watch your every movement;
and tells you to return
inside youry broken dream…
Says, ” next time call a Roofer,
or fix it yourself”…
Such dialogue, bizarre!
Dream or Reality? You haven’t a clue,
feeling the sun-break, breaking-
into your dream,
upon a field of open space,
radiantly eerie,
as if Armageddon… had begun in your sleep;
entombment by plaster,
from the ceiling…remember the ceiling?
The ceiling that collapsed atop of your body,
while having a dream in a real life moment,
or was it?
And, I, picking up a feathered pen
begin to write within the dream
I am having o’er a redundant dream,
I am having o’er a dream…
or am I?
rote abou
©Frank James Ryan, Jr./ FjR
MMXVIII-All Rights Reserved.
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