Reliving Dream-Reality

At night, dreams spill like scree seeking final purchase,
spreading slow fragmented constellations beneath the skull,
each impression a lantern swung by unseen hands,
casting tomorrow’s shadows across yesterday’s walls.
They arrive feather-footed, yet thunder with omen,
like distant storms already reflected in still lakes.

By morning, fragments cling like dew to waking,
half-remembered faces, corridors folding into sunlight,
their meanings glinting like fish just below the surface.
Daylight dreams begin where sleep dissolved,
mirages rising from coffee steam and passing glances,
as if the mind keeps writing in a language of echoes.

And throughout the hours, reality itself softens,
streets bend like pliant metal under memory’s weight,
conversations replay as rehearsals for what has not yet come.
We walk inside a diary already half-inscribed,
each step both footprint and prophecy,
each breath turning a page no hand appears to hold.

So evening gathers its quiet, deliberate hush,
drawing curtains of violet across the seeing world—
and as eyelids descend like theater doors at last,
the script resumes where the waking faltered…
for in that tender crossing of darkened sight,
we wonder, softly—what awaits dream-reality tonight?