What are dreams really?
Mirrors of a brain hollowed out whole,
foetuses of possibility strangled in their umbilical cords,
or parallel worlds where I am whole,
and my shadow doesn’t metamorphose into a faceless lump of flesh?
Why aren’t my dreams simple?
Of light, of humanity, of hope?
Why do they crawl instead,
through the cracks of my skull,
whispering that I’ve been nothing but fragments
since before I learned my own name.
Why do I exist in them in shreds,
threads of myself unraveling,
suffocating in corridors sutured shut,
a corpse of thought staring back,
mocking, grinning, bleeding into me.
Or have I lived in darkness so long
that my mind lashes its own eyes,
and I am but blind,
naked,
an unsaid prayer,
to godless ghosts of god fearing men
while I rot inside myself?
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