A rediscovered poem

I found this in my 2013 dream journal, from when I was still in the closet.


My dreams were born from above, not below,

or if below, in the  primal ember of love and material birth

in a subterranean reality  not infernal, but  from clay and blood.

And if above, from the more primal womb, the first vibration that stirred the world to dancing.

From a place like this came my dreams, not from some titanic abyss.

My dreams were born in Heaven, not in Hell;

whatsoever has become of them, this at least I can know.

I can taste the glory in the slightest breeze that stirs them

And my heart leaps like a certain child upon a certain vibration.

I know very little, but I know this: the wellspring of this water is on the slopes of the Holy Mountain.

My dreams were born of God, not of sin.

It’s only logical, after all, for things of darkness may be spoken of but oughtn’t be,

Yet my dreams are of a rhythm that must be played yet can’t be.

I obviously never finished it, but I like the ideas I was expressing.


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