Stretched between
wakefulness and oblivion;
identity’s rebellion
and sleep’s persuasion;
I fiddled with the
bitter cold star inside me.
Dead star with dead dreams at its core.

Dead dreams and immovable dreams;
kinds that do not collide
to trigger life;
warping and folding on themselves.
Under the dead weights
of their doomed expectations,
they dived into the unknown dimensions of me.

Wormholes opened
into the unknown beings of me,
unseen vistas, unexplored terrains
and starry skies studded
with unfulfilled desires.
And in one such dimension
even peace was within grasp.
But in barged sunlight
and the nightly multiverse
collapsed into the day