You wake slowly, disturbed
at the simplicity of your room
after an hour of dreams,
vibrant, madcap, full of powers and music
you cannot reach in your waking hours.
About this poem.
I dream. A lot. Vibrant. Mostly wonderful and fantastic. Dali meets Rembrandt and Monet. Full of music, smells and touch. Did I mention vibrant? And it is often a disappointment to wake and find that whole world I lived in for an hour or so was only in my mind. I start so many days in that place of loss and disappointment.
Ah, but the real world! I would not trade it for anything. Unlike the other worlds, it never abandons me. And the value in that is indescribable.
PS: The picture was taken at Mass MoCA.