After Dream
Last night the kitchen breathed
He stood there silver hair spilling light a beard of ash eyes mirrors turned inward burning through me.
His mouth moved, words curling out like a snake, as if speaking to shadows, as if speaking to me.
For a moment a flicker — am I looking at myself? — An echo from a future I can't hold.
He reminded me of Stanislavski, how I remember his pictures, yet searching those images he was neither him nor me.
He was something other, carved thinner older than time, newer than now.
I wanted to stay or have him stay but was pulled away, unspooled from sleep.
Still, if I hadn't woken, would he have ever been?
Dreams need breaking to be remembered a word waiting on the tongue, a word held too long never finds its sound.
::Note:: ... taken from here
