Requiem for a Dream

Before the rain sets, before false compensations,
taking it for all it's worth, grasping for the gold
following the false pretenses
and erroneous gestures and painstaking compulsions
I appreciate the solitude in my conscious being
I smell the nostalgia of unfinished summers
I clench the shattered glass of the broken mirror
and at daybreak, I mourn the dreams of the previous night
only real to the dreamer and consequently
a testament of perfections and indulgences
like a child thrust into the cold, bright world
I feel that I am that infant, and the womb rejects my insecurity.

The mathematics of the mind overpower the senses
in a matrix of neurons and integrated highways of transmitters
in my cradled head of unconscious thoughts
rests the secrets that I unveil to my Freudian viewers
my guilty pleasures and my childhood confrontations.
The dream is realized, and its dramatic climax
only shadows, only visions,
like the movie-screen kiss, like the uncertain death.

Who controls these inner thoughts?
Who penned the script, who directed the motivations?
The sedatives are released, the drowsiness instills,
and I am thrust into a world unknown
or did I desire these scenes, these exploiting notions?

I wake, then, to reality and the familiar dimension
and the vague compensation of my memory,
with strange denial and of grief observed,
it hinders in the mind's eye,
the title of my work, the value of my dreams
the affirmation of my being I conclude
that wakefulness ceases to interlude my unconscious opus.
Requiem æternam dona eis.