Dream Repeat (or: Existence Is the Dream That Dances Endlessly in the Echo Chamber of the Sleeping Mind)

Dreams themselves
are repetitions, I know.

But of what? Of the world
at large? Its baker faculties?
Its unseen conjunctions? Or
maybe they repeat the mind itself.
Pieces and components of it.
The past, the future.
The uninherited
coincidence.

Paintings,
or else photographs.
Premonitions,
or else the life unsent.
Aching, legioning miles
of pipeline in dirt
from dirt through dirt so that
we may only assume
that it will only ever stop
at dirt.

This subsistence of the self,
is it refraction
of the self which is constant?
Is it reflection
of the self which manifests?

Well, one thing's for sure:
this is nothing new.

Summer (or late Spring), 2014

Further Context