Poem: Death of Dream

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By Heiko Eser – German artist living in Ireland 

I dreamt the dream we dream today,

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I dreamt the death of dream.

And that this dream will not just kill the ones that are aware they dream,

but also those that swear and shout that we are naked and awake.

And that the demons that fill the papers

will be banished by reason.

But I wonder about these shades.

Daily black ink that fades and reshapes.

Do the shades just flee a torch that burns too bright?

Or did the beginning of mind carry the seed of the end

or beginning of the death of dream?

I dreamt a room without walls,

a room completely unenclosed.

And somewhere in this room a minute stain,

a speck called planet earth.

And on this dot in space

the natives dreamt the deaths of others,

that would not share their dream.

While all dreamt of a place

where all their listless dreams

could find some fruitful solace.

They would not understand the dream of history.

I dreamt the hangman wave a flag and everybody waved

their hands to what they thought their landsman dreamt.

Some fatal dream prevailed.

I dreamt the land they dreamt was an infectious dream.

Some dreams can haunt and bend geography.

I wonder,

have we been there in the future?

and is it some lost continent

that inches back as we move forward,

forever ruthless?

I wonder,

will the scattered limbs that we have flung towards this dream

reassemble at this place to thank us for our ruthlessness?

Or will the ghosts that linger wait for us when we arrive,

defend the coast to show our lives as absolutely senseless?

Where could we turn from there?

Suddenly aware the dream exists but not for us

and all we did so fervently prevents us to regain

what we dreamt must sometime come to us by rights.

Where would we go from here if we would still be there?

I dreamt I was

and dreamt myself back where I am now,

Here, where you can see me.

And I wonder:

do you dream of my dead body as a stepping stone?

A short cut to propel an ancient dream?

Or do you dream of life as something comfortable,

moving slow like ripples on a muddy river?

Do you dream even further that your life will flow forever,

like a loop that never fails to circle round the golden calf?

Or do you dream that what you see is

stagnant?

Singular?

Particles true to the touch?

Too real to ever budge an inch

and that the limits you dream

are other dreamers’ frontiers?

Well if you do,

then dream again,

as all those borders are just dreams

and all those dreams are countless.

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