The Dream Machine

I encountered freedom,

under the mountain of memories she spoke to my ideas, about wandering unceasingly, inside my soul.

I came across solitude,

I begged her to hug me no that I would never again feel alone, and handed over to her things of no value, in the emptiness of the crowd.

I defeated hunger, thirst, the plague and famine, wealth and the church, all the ills of the world; I defeated anger.

Under the attentive gaze of the prison guard of myself, the crazy seeker is now alone, and hidden so well inside a little flower that he will never be found or discovered, and injure and seek god.

While the Sun looks on and the Moon leaves her bed, above algae exuding their scent in the thoughts still lying down, of wizards and warlocks, of sirens now far distant.

I saw peace, in the silence of my steps, inside the sound of the unknown, while the wind blew inside, sweeping away all disease.

The possible is a probable torment, the rakish desire to try the energy, the vibrating of light in the unexpected awakening. The answer to the questions I do not have.

In the dark days I painted the soul, in the hidden refuge among ideas and in the crystal palace, in the work of the mind and in the day of truce for thoughts, in that silence, I turned back on the dream machine.