Daylight Fantasy

The wind calls for us to compromise,
but the innocent must stand still in the storm:
pierced,
to guard the only shelter of the minds.  

Owls penetrate the melting night,
echoing sounds of inquiry.
Night glistens in firing flames
to the dedicated, the fate.

It was the phantom that leaks through the overarching sky:
glasses glisten in pieces of choice - hidden, ungranted-
igniting rules and broken promises.

So fragile the starry night of dreams:
glistening so faint where the innocent rested.
Scraped with hoes so sharp,
eyes worn with tears –
streaming down the glaring gaze.  

The child seized the shattered pieces,
fingers brushing fragmented puzzle.
In blurry eyes trying to ramble in place
and glue the sky in rubber-colored ink.  

But they were told to comply:
to follow the experienced and right.
“For growth”, they say, “and for success.”  

Again, nights are shattered in shimmering fantasies,
tearing boundless inquiries and attempts -  
they finally dissipate upon the first streak of dusk
in sunrise to reborn in maturing flames.  

The fire burns through the barren lands,
engulfing of the lake of eyes so large.
In it encloses a fate
finally drown through lightening and pain -  
innocent eyes lost to darkness of the night.  

How long have we set aside these childish dreams -  
to enclose our eyes in a glaring glaze
and peer through the piercing flames
as we tug on the threaded “should”?  

Though childish it seems,
inverted in eyes of the innocent,
where can we find our treasures once more?

NO, we DON’T know.

But the child knows it is time to come:
to rebirth as the daylight strikes.

Trembling hands thread through the pieces,
needles falling and picked.
Stars knit the constellation
into a glass glistening through accentuating lights.  

The lost wash their faces in shattered glass,
hands torn, wounded,  
scarlet flow in streams of tears.
Overhead the glaze lost to dreary dusk.  

Once more, in the undulating rhythms the thunders span,
gripping one's nerve to tighten and stretch.
Glances through dusts lick the gloomy clouds
to clear the night,
and let stella be heard:
"Embrace the night;
LET GO the flames”.  

But “No, no,” the child would say, closing the eyes,
“Rebirthing in light,
we need its flames
to GUIDE us in should,
to enlighten us in world”.  

But is rebirth truly an alarm
or the lullaby to a deeper sleep?
How much do us dwell upon the lightning of the day
to not be DROWNED in glazing flames?

Let us reopen our eyes to hear sounds of the night
once again filled by owls who warn.
Calls pierce our eyes;
we wake as inflammation stings.  

Where can we find our consciousness long lost
through streams of the so-called growth -
embedded in instillation of thoughts,
dissipating away into the dusk?

Some do break the shattered frames
to stretch out and connect the constellation.
They dwell on one to ignite:
through the dark a real spark of passionate joys.

But many birds awake yet with their eyes pressed,
lost in projections they shall follow.
A dead fish floats in air,
its eyes white, drifting up the waterfilled mist,
locked in an everlasting sleep.  

Though calls will come centuries later -
cracking, seeps through the ground.
Streams drip onto the torn forehead,
and slide
down the youth now frozen smooth.  

Snow owls sing the passing of the night,
time brushed and buried in ice.
“You cannot go back,” they hiss.

Yet underground eyes let thaw long-lost fantasies
for memoirs to be seen:  notes damp in streaming brooks, words floating, roaring by.  Trickling in thunders woke the one.
Reawaking the daylight comes: Owls quack.
Fantasies revisited;
A warm embrace.