My Sycophantic Dreams

My sycophantic dreams run wild...

Hot red manipulation in the eyes of those gripping the chains willingly, eager to see the crushed egos of those concealed by a false atonement.

Deep black sorrow in the dreams of those who grasp at the chain in fear, too weary and unaware to let go of their primordial misperceptions.

A distant purple scene of vivacity, both altruistic and peaceful, surges daringly and obscurely through time.

A tinted yellow haze in the sight of those who view the chain, suspicious of its allegorical mysteries.

An ancient blue aurora scouting through the abandoned streets of a town, robbed of a vital construct.

A green plant, lively with potent soil and sunlight peers from a crack in the stone floor of a building, fertile overgrowth withering its foundations and staining its marble columns with organic signatures.

A tattered brown hand closing in on a linked shell of what held a sandy fortune many eons ago.

A limestone stairway leading to a limp corpse on a plinth, clutched to a large pile of marvelously carved stones.

The skeleton's index finger positioned to a large jade in the pile, inscribed with patterns and logarithms detailing the revelations from a firmament unrecognizable by humankind.

When your only thoughts are shared in between spaces, both untouched and irrational, the only part that can remain has already been preserved long before the final decay.

The formidable bonds holding these thoughts compose the celestial bodies, whose violent deaths in turn create us; occupied by infinite 'waters,' we are separated by a force so imperceptible that we have come to know it as divine.

Rising slowly up from the horizon, the mystifying Fata Morgana overlays thestrewn stars glittering in the twilight, as the beautiful palace arises into the reflective clouds. Though outside its structure is distinct and mighty, its many halls contain every door to every possible place or situation; the barrier being that which makes dreaming all too stupendously real, and living far too wickedly somnolent.

As the immeasurably fast swinging chain tangled snugly around the owners neck begins to heat up and melt, the people holding it wail as the decisive moment hits them. Let go; and lose that which makes dreaming a temporary excursion- thus discovering the oracles of the eternal dream world? Or keep a determined grip on the agonizing, yet enlightening external, and internal trip that is existing?- That is, 'To be,' or to have lived- THE existence.

Last time you left, the question was laid before you, and you befriended your demise.

This time the question has set forth the revival of the way, revolution of peace, renaissance of immortal creation, and deliverance to Utopian freedom.

You are apprehensive to accept, and likewise to decline...