What matters if life is but a dream for dreams are as constant,
as envisioning, as deep and mysterious as the mind conjures
new ones, as real as all of life’s trappings. I am only as voiceless
as this clay tongue, as unknowing as the cosmic dust gathers
by these hands to become gloved in sleep
as much as could be revealed in dreams
to wrestle with the demonic fire. I spiral back to earth
where dreams unearthed make me a human, clear and divine
as heaven’s credence to all my utterings. When I go to sleep,
I hear the sound of horses running around and every day
I always wonder how the world started.