A streaming parade of images,
relentless mind traffic,
all empty of any self-nature,
just passing cars in the twilight,
headlights approaching, tail lights receding,
and you can barely keep your eyes open
as your head slowly nods to the side,
and now you are asleep.
In the rear view mirror, your body looks abandoned,
just a lump of your likeness involuntarily shifting
back and forth, now this way and then that,
timed to the motions of the traveling automobile
as it makes its way through the descending dusk.
Here in your dream you find yourself rising up,
ascending high above the interstate,
above the snaking traffic below,
and now your are flying through the sky,
unconfined by gravity’s grip, soaring
on wings of mere intent —
Then somehow the scene starts to fall apart,
it breaks into fragments that quickly dissolve;
you know it’s been said and here’s the proof —
whatever begins must surely end.
The sensation of motion itself has ceased
as the cool night air floods in from an opened door
and a new reality arranges itself for your attention.
Now a shadowy face leans close to your own,
it’s vaguely familiar, yet still indistinct, and their voice —
soft but insistent — is repeating in singsong refrain:
“Wake up, my little sleepyhead — we’re home!”