But these were not my hands;
these were the hands of history
massaging everything that is now
into the relaxation of reoccurrence
of momentary fingerprints smudged
down the glass of fossil images reflecting
faces emerged within visions of sound/silent
but heard brightly in mutation.
But these were not my ears;
These were the ears of sight
listening once again to the sweet melody
of imagination as it walks
on hard wood of oak waxed by reality.
I’v stood here before; right here again
in the middle of my mind watching jumbled
thoughts perform on the stage of consciousness
with no beginning act and no ending
applause; just the stage fright of symbolic distortions
serenading with gestures of definition/undefined
but present in the clarity of sleep.
And it all came to me in a dream
that I’v stood here before( not as me)
but as fragments of imagination’s reality.
Tarringo T Vaughan