Mindscape (A Poem)

 

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Dream
There where my conscious meets my subconscious
Telling each other stories I never heard
I start dreaming.
I dream, dream and dream
Until they make love to each other
And satisfy their appetites.
I dream.

He told me, he didn’t know what is art
That he just couldn’t hold on to it
That he can never understand the words,
The colors,
The moves.
I kept silent
And it was then my subconscious told
That it was normal.
It was normal not to understand oneself.
And the next time I saw him,
I rhymed the words
I colored a poem
And he was formed.
A work of art, he called himself.

There where my conscious meets my subconscious
Telling each other stories I never heard
I start dreaming.

The melancholy wrapped in a fancy of love,
Glass jars filled with phrases from metaphysical poems,
A window looking out into the composition of his soul.
It was then my subconscious told
That it is all one.
The melancholy leading to the phrases making a composition
Becoming the body to his soul
encasing him delicately.
And a museum was formed.
A receptacle of art, he called himself.

Everytime, where my conscious befriends my unconscious
Holding the hands of my subconscious,
A dream happens.
A dream where I borrow stories from the universe,
Color them into a poem
And an art is formed.
Art, he calls himself.
A dream, which it all is.

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