Storyteller’s Dreams

I knew a storyteller once

His stories were medicine
The kind that made you think for a while
He’d say, I think-
Maybe i’m just lost in my head
Or maybe my stories are better off dead

A dreamer of some sorts
Making and unmaking all kinds of sense
Some of it thin and some of it dense

Going on and on and on and on
Telling stories about life and death
Death to the past
Death to the future
Death to the world
Death to evil-
This he wished
-Life to what was already dead
Forgetting to really live along the way
Or in between dreaming
And this is why he’d say
Maybe I’m just lost in my head

He was killing his thoughts
Murderous he would consider
And this was the price he paid for deliberation

Spending days longing for nights to come
So he could sleep
Some nights battling to get there
This is how he gathered his medicine
In dreams where he’d unconsciously think

Meeting people something like halfway
Some of them he knew
Some of whom he’d never met
Saying goodbye to their smiles
Long before they ever had a chance
to pray together
He’d wake to an ache in his spine
A pinch in his mind without any concept of time

A dreamer of some sorts
Chasing dreams and stories to tell or create
He would wonder
If dreams are to be chased then
Should that dream not become a life of pursuit?
He’d tell himself to go back to sleep
To pick up where he left off
See how it ends

Sometimes this entity
It refused to let him journey back there
Dreams are wicked he’d think
They have their own spirit
Their own life
Some can be killed
Others die on their own time
Even the forgotten ones come back to haunt you
It’s best to chase them he would dissolve
Ohh these dreams are wicked

The day isn’t ready for a new dream to escape outer space
Where those stories are written by who knows who
The question remains then
Lingering his perception
Go back to sleep he’d tell himself
But those questions were dreams’ children
His head was their house
And sometimes they were just loud
Running the hallways
Knocking on doors and yelling out

Where is the inception of truth?
In what time or space are we truly awake?
If dreams are reality
An elaborate range of deceptions
This life

In only one of those places
Does guilt ever creep in for its own medicine fix
Those dreams of some sorts

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