They appear suddenly, overnight, like mushrooms.
And they’re similarly near to weightless.
Sometimes they’re tasty, sometimes poison,
just like the bounty I picked in fields so long ago.
So they’re the closest thing in my life to fungi.
And their magic stretches from the demonic to the divine.
All day long, they burrow down in my subconscious.
They’re caged creatures who can let themselves out.
Wannabe Freuds are anxious to give them meaning.
Chess is the war between good and evil.
Crystal is clarity. Weapons are aggression.
They’ve read just enough to have it all figured out.
But, to my mind, they tell me nothing of myself.
Nor are they precognitive.
I’ve never flapped my arms and flown,
nor showed up for a high school exam in just my underwear.
As soon as I awaken, they’re gone.
Like the mushroom blown away by wind.
Or plucked by someone and consumed.
They’re that brief, that fragile.
If I didn’t dream them, they wouldn’t sprout at all.
