Visions
We crowd
in, crowd out.
Wake
soundless, dream-rapt.
Pure morning
builds itself out
while we
wish to gaze inside
within the
walls of our mind,
crazy corridors
of fantastic hue,
blighted
bridges ripped to fall,
semi-realised
portraits of our past,
in episodes we’ve co-written
with our
imagination, our host
who designs
the scenes, the stage,
the actors
without our knowledge.
It’s
lost to us how this all forms
and why
our invisible plays
dance on
without our say.
we know not
where they go,
or how
we craft them so,
living
paintings of our minds,
stealing
us away in dreams,
reshaping
an alternative vista
to
escape the cold outside.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 1, 2020
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