I wrote this poem when I was in college, maybe with too much on my mind.
I decided to include it here because it shows my perpetual fascination with dreams.
It will probably be my last poem for a while…
In waking we die,
and in dreams are reborn.
In the moments that lie in between,
with quiet anxiety, we coax silently,
and our voice has the volume of universes.
…but it was only the alarm clock,
and once again, we die and are reborn.
Which was the birth? …and which was the death?
It seems for a moment we know,
and then we realize
that there are parts of the moment
of which birth and death know little.
We look into the moment-parts.
We see beautiful sounds.
…and paint pictures of births and deaths.
As night becomes day in an endless cycle,
we gather around the moment,
and watch messengers of life ride on the bristles
of invisible paint brushes.
We sit on the frame,
and cry out praises and criticisms for the mysterious artist who paints us.
…and as the day becomes night in an endless cycle,
© 2011 Anne Schilde