These stories that visit me when I sleep.
A plethora of pictures in colour
The alphabet of sight.
Sound tattooed on my eyelids
So I can hear with my pupils
The voice of imagination.
Here day meets night and they conceive
A thousand seasons,
All, versions of summer
To blind the bogeyman of broken wishes
And melt minds of stone.
So even if night gives way to day,
I am never afraid as this umbilical chord of light
From my throat keeps me bright.
Can I call them dreams these stories that visit me when I sleep?
These narratives of freedom
That chain me to the sky
So even if my feet touch the ground
My fingers pick stars like puzzle-pieces
picking galaxies out my hair.
Now let me open my eyes and tell the stories that visit me when I sleep.
Stories of a life better than this.
Where even the bogey man cannot reach.
I’ve dreamed of my freedom.
Now I live it.