dream-sleep-dream

The strange faces and lost wanderers gather under a desolute moon. Their hopes, wishes, and aspirations beam through the sky-lit aura of their eyes. It is here that sleep brings them. Beneath this twilight, they dream as one. Bonded together by the cries of the heart, they forge an everlasting quest to find their meaning. And to find their name. They are made the same by the infinitely possible and impossibly infinite. Their dreams hold pictures of life. Pictures of death. Emotions and emotions yet undefined. Spontaneity and sincerity take hold and sleep permits them not to falsify. What is wrong is wrong. And what is right is right, yet the difference between good and evil fails to surmise. Instinct is their keeping and escape from those in need is unsufferable. They tread upon the realm of others as others tread upon the realm of theirs as well. No road is belonged to. The heavens are seen through their eyes differently, but together they paint it as one. The unattended know not of their exclusivity. The inclusive know no different. Continuance is eternal and death is fiction. Their quest within reaps the findings of a prosperous dominion. Beneath this twilight, hope emerges, taking shape in the celestials and revealing itself through the sky-lit aura of their eyes. Through their sleeping dreams they grow.
     By sunrise dreams are broken and wishes lost. The quest each has sought withers into the timeless past of the forgotten. Strange faces become even stranger and lost wanders farther from being found. It is under the yellow bloom of a sweltering sky that their eyes are blind with light and lose image of everything within the blur. Their thoughts become reality and bonds are divided. Words replace wishes and greed steals away aspirations. The breath of each man comes as an invisible chill to his neighbor. Eyes retreat from eyes and plastic characters take the real from within. The strange faces grimace in pain. And in agony. They snarl with hate and seethe with cynicism. The lost wanderers chase after empty needs of the ego and forget their quest for what they already have. They find themselves in places irrational to rationality and rational to false beliefs. They are already dead, but walk as though they believe they are still alive. They become that which they are exposed to the most. The lonely reach for other silent souls. And the accompanied seek to stay accompanied. Their quest is to escape themselves. To escape themselves, nonetheless capture the satiations of the reflection they've broken. No arm can be seen outstretched. Hand in hand becomes a myth. The strange faces and lost wanderers live for what can be touched and die for the good they believe exists in pride. Love grows a pricetag and hate becomes breakfast. They do for themselves. They do for others that which benefits them as well. The good collects dust upon a cobwebbed shelf as the wrong has been made the casual attire. They forge bonds made of gold and seal them to their own graves. They die alone. They are born alone. They desire to live as less. Upon their hearts they wear rubies. A faint reminder of the shade it once was. Tears fall without understanding why. Shouts echo and people collapse. Freezing rains pour from out the clear blue above. A hidden storm approaches, concealed by the yellow bloom of a sweltering sky. Their division amongst each other has brought them together with their fates. Through their waking eyes they perish.