A Visionary Matrix In Four Poems(3)

The Cold and the Heat Our dreams have become unmanageable, day and night. We feel like puppets, floundering on a bare stage, with an incompetent puppetmaster who admits he lacks the nimbleness required for success. Once we shaped Lucid Dreams in daylight and surrendered to their illumination in nighttime. Now all our dreams are commonplace affairs we can neither shape nor predict, so we must endure the worst of them. Our once visionary prophets are spent. They express their sorrows in exquisite poetry. They chant their verse when the sky is festooned with stars. The cold of space and the stellar fires contend for mastery of the sky and its infinite mysteries of chance and fate. When we curl into sleep's currents and our still active minds hasten after night thoughts of glory or dismay, we cannot tell which force - the Cold or the Heat - will propel us to a higher state of being. Our souls are vexed by the long weight of time before our destiny is manifested.