Undead

Undead
Overdead
Somewhere the far side of the living
But still here
Still evolving
Walking as if in dreamstates
Waiting to emerge
To awaken
Tortured and captured by imagination

Is it really true
That we imagine ourselves into being?
That we are the imagination of ourselves?
That has never made sense until now
So much of identity
Is a conjuring trick of the mind
An invented facsimile
Of someone who never existed
A phantom
Whose mind has to work
At a million miles an hour
To give that creation
A solid presence in reality

When we dream
Aspects of those dreams
Are reflections of our inner reality
Our inner truth
But how much of this waking dream
Is based in reality?
Because that’s when dreams
Become nightmares