I Wake Again

One day I woke,
And in waking I realised
My life was a dream.

Not the dream while we sleep.
And it wasn’t me dreaming it.
I don’t know how,
But in the moment of waking,
I glimpsed who,
Or what,
Was dreaming me.

I didn’t see a face,
Or know a name,
But I knew
That when I woke from sleep
Was when my Dreamer
Dreamt me into existence.

He, or was it She,
Woke as me,
Becoming totally involved
In my existence.

With unimaginable passion,
With nerves spread
Receptive to pain and longing,
With every fibre lost in
My troubles, my lost love,
My desire to create,
My frustration, my life.

And I had taken it
All so seriously.
My childhood,
My searching, my heartbreak,
And achievements.
I had ached and struggled
Through every moment
Of this dream.

I knew too that
When I slept my dreamer woke,
Not as a struggling human like myself,
But as a grand being
Without such limitations.

Yet a being who needed
To explore the depths
Of isolation,
Of feeling self-aware,
And without a sense of
Connection with everything,
Lost in feelings of time,
Of ageing and of meeting death.

Thus my existence,
So real,
So poignant.

And my own sleeping dreams,
Are when I awake beyond
This life,
Into that grander style.

But I only bring back
Unfocused shapes,
Half known truths,
Swarming to find life,
To be recognised,
Beyond the limitations of
My time bound, death bound, self.

And I awake again
In the dream of my Dreamer,
Knowing the strangeness of it,
And finding peace.

Copyright ©2002 Tony Crisp