The Poet's Graffiti Wall

My dreams are now poems prose not with prowess my dreams are reality my marionette work (life) with a meat puppet is a dream What club do I dance in? Is the dance real? or is it the club? or am I real? I think the dance is reality we are it's props One wall of my house is a chalkboard filled with delighful drawings, notes, new words, old words and poetry It is evolution, unfolding, before my eyes, I write not of fears I write of what is, love is light is Balance is Oneness ultimately a return to home completed perfected? What is left here in the dream? Stage props everywhere without meaning filling to overflowing the scenery of plastic trees and fluff What is left? Where is reality now? What does it consist of? Bliss is reality do you shun it or welcome it do you follow it? choiceless, effortless flow toward bliss into the river of motion to god's multi-colored ocean we are drops expressions divine naturalists