Dreaming Awake


The past is a dream, man has only heard of it,
Man dreams of the future, that cocooned hope,
Which reveals itself further each moment.
Thus speaks man: all is but a dream.
We walk conscious after somnium,
Carrying the symbols and stories of old.
We look to the gifted prophets of oraculum,
Oracles, rightly called, giving future guidance.
We cross to to fro by present means of nature’s tradition:
What infinite patience regulates each stride we take,
Each going no faster than the previous!
Who can hasten his stride or quicken his step?
We march to the wild rhythms and harmonies of nature.
But dreams sometimes break the present cadence,
Chiseling away at faith in the visible world.
Evil and virtue wear different masks in the sleepy night,
Clarity is sifted by confusion, distortion is brought to light.
These apparitions can overpower the woken world
And color each moment, authoring new states of mind.
In sleep, I leave that unyielding stride and forsake all men behind.
Yet, if all men only dwelt in my night visions, And I
Were alone in the wakeful world of a lonely sky,
Earth, and sense; waking hours would be dreams,
Dreams without friends; passings of the desolate.
He who hasn’t doubted the world, hasn’t doubted his faith.
Yet, in doubt, we resort to things uncreate,
Things eternal, divine whisperings,  immortal Ideas
Which history and shifting fashion cannot exterminate.
Standing before them, all nature seems but a shadow,
An imitation, and a dream. These resortings
Are foolishness to the faithful– shallowed faithful,
Jailers who doggedly confine their sight to their eyes,
Forbidding their inner light to burst forth and see. 
Yet upon ascension to eternal regions, free men meet
Judgement, Truth, and Justice, and Love.
All good men, in their presence, find they are evil;
Repentant men meet and are redeemed by good.
Humbly, then, we judge the visible by the invisible,
And receive a repaired faith, grounding the world.
But the judgment of the prideful: the good who remain good;
Upon greeting the Idealic Heights, see only a mirror,
And having pondered their reflection, have no idea
What manner of men they are.

 

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