The River, Dreams, and Your Whereabouts

I stay awake,
eyes filled with viscous, glutinous weariness
for sleep has since been lost in my long list of alternatives.

The bed that I lay upon,
notwithstanding my volition, has registered a few creases and wrinkles
testifying to my presence;
My existence is invested in those leftover wrinkles and folds.

It’s a matter of days long past
when I used to visit you in dreams.
You would oftentimes weave an aspiration
to build a dainty riverside cottage.
When we last met there
your feet were bruised
Your blood had dripped on my dreams;
When I returned with salve the next day,
you were not to be found there.

A frontier had since lain itself down between the pillows
But I never let frontiers serve as the sheets of slumber –
even following the departure of sleep
from one’s list of alternatives
can a man dare not rise in rebellion against his dreams.

Nowadays, I weave dreams with open eyes,
I ride the boat of consciousness
conveying my homage by means of leaves carefully-lain with letters set adrift,
the leaf trembles in the breath of the river
as it seeks your whereabouts
as to on what banks beyond slumber stands your house,
where are you to be found, in the dreams of eyes wide open!