Nitya Bhatia
I have never written about,
my dreams and what
they are made of,
loopy thoughts seem,
rather sorted in comparison,
they arrive uninvited sometimes,
when they greet my open eyes
gazing at the infinite skies,
they are lucid as crystalline scenes,
blurred and cracked images
when being chased desperately,
you never remember them at will,
only flashes you might see
navigating mundane tasks,
the familiar one eyed bird
as I opened the shower nozzle,
the conflicted colour scheme
of the blue grass overlooking
the green clouds,
edible doors dripping caramel,
homes built in cookie dough,
abstract spirals, zentangled visions,
or the indiscriminate chase
physical perspiration,
they feel so real like a conversation
you can feel your lips moving,
like your veins pulsating,
objects and shapes unwavering,
real life fantasies are what dreams
are made of,
or maybe even this reality is just
another waking dream...