Naked Body of Dreams

Poetry by David Deyo


Poetry Contents
Prev  Next 

Folded in a Dream

When night comes to cradle me in the arms of my sleep,
it whispers in a lullaby voice I never can remember.
I am ushered by its recitation, in moonlight dim and blue,
to the silken door of veils that opens with my closing eyes,
admitting me like a secret friend in a nursery for dreams.

These vaporous imaginings rush to embrace me awhile,
their newly-fashioned characters scrambling into costumes,
memorizing the parts and roles for which they were cast,
erecting the stage and sets before I speak my opening line.

A drowsy blanket, woven from the wool of counted sheep,
smothers under a weighty cloak of thick, somnolent fabric
everything that memory and reason would have me know.
By a wrinkle of conceit which I sometimes understand,
I have soared high above trees without wing or machine,
set my faithful feet on water and walked it like a floor,
deflected injury by magic and defeated every single foe.

But the lives in which all miracles are mine to direct
are short and too uncertain, like flickers of omnipotence
my fingers cannot hold or smuggle to the waking world.
My self and soul return empty-handed and unclothed,
bereft of every shield or staff or talisman or sword
from which I may have drawn such full dominion.

The splash of my awakening is a shattering of spells,
broken into bubbles now that rise and flee beside me
from murky waters as if the air could make them real.
Remnants of fantasy shine on my skin like silver droplets
that slide away in trickles and unsteerable rivulets
and soon are lost like dew into the moisture of the day.


About the Poem

This poem was an effort to explore the idea of how our dreams seem so real to us, even when we possess superhuman gifts in these dreams. We wake from our dreams believing we have returned to a world that is real. But perhaps our own world is nothing more than a larger dream in which we are all the invented characters. If our world is itself a dream, then who is dreamer to whom we would owe our very lives? Here is a video interpretation of this poem, read by David:

Folded in a Dream

Publication

This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished February 2, 2002.

Sharing

ABOUT US

TalisMedia is a publishing and merchandise venture that offers unique visual and written content as well as related products offered through our online store.

It also is the parent of brands that serve specific audiences, such as Chronal House.

RELATED SITES

TalisMedia Online Store at zazzle.com