dreaming like escher

last night I had a dream that reminded me of an Escher painting,
if it was three dimensional with HD and Dolby surround sound.

I was in a loft perched on top of warehouse like an Osprey nest in the Florida Everglades.

I walked up a set of wooden stairs as narrow as a telephone pole from a warehouse made entirely of wood.

I walked up those wooden telephone pole stairs to reach him.

but to get to him, I had to walk over remnants of someone’s past.
old wooden buckets, broken gilded mirrors, stainless steel microphones,
a dusty black baby grand piano and etched champagne glasses
shattered into shards of black and green.

as I reached the top of the stairs, the wooden telephone pole stairs gave way to an industrial strength shiny white loft.

with a door that was as translucent as the door from that apartment he showed me on our trip to San Diego.

It was locked.

I knocked.
there was no answer.

as I turned to leave, that translucent door became a mirrored tapered hallway that went on till infinity.

but it abruptly ended and collapsed onto itself like a Bavarian accordion player coming to the end of his tune.

there he was, ethereally sleeping behind a pane of glass.

his room was swaddled in white with just a mattress on the floor.

he was on his stomach with his head turned towards me.

his mouth was scarcely open, but his face wore a cheeky grin.

his wispy black hair floated on the pillow, undulating like it had a life of its own.

a diaphanous white sheet skimmed his naked body and his left arm delicately hung off the side and touched the wooden floor.

I was so far away, but I could see every detail.

I didn’t want to wake him, so I walked back down the wooden telephone pole stairs and texted.

“do you want to come with me on an adventure out in the world?”

no reply.

I kept walking until I reached the bottom of the wooden telephone stairs. I had to walk over all the broken things again.

I looked up, to see a three-piece band playing on stage and the lead singer was a woman with ironed straight long black hair, she looked like Kim from the Pixies.

but I couldn’t hear them playing.

there were people in the room drinking, laughing, flirting, texting and talking,

but I couldn’t hear them either.

Jennifer Kite-Powell

Written by

A woman who writes. Author, poet & Forbes tech contributor. 1st book on sale at Amazon http://amzn.to/2EbrmN0 and http://bit.ly/2EkBVB7 & Berl's Poetry Shop/NY