A sequence of images produced by the brain
When I sleep, they’re always the same
A false memory of sorts, of things that can’t truly be
The dialogue always starts with me.
“Excuse me, is this a joke?” I grab a passerby
“Why doesn’t anybody realize I’m here?”
My surroundings become oppressive with fear
Confused his face becomes contorted
He never says anything but I always understand
I’ve passed on, and what I’ve requested, was a strange demand
I look around wildly
Try and make out any familiar faces
Only to realize it’s been ages
What year is it? Why am I running?
I feel so lost
And then – permafrost
Where am I?
There are no colors, just a town
Everything looks filtered through brown
I’m following someone, into a chapel?
It’s a girl I think, turn around turn around
And as her hair begins to uncover her face
I feel an impending death
Hers or mine?
I do not know, then –
I wake up.
Who was she?
© Luis Valencia