Thoughts and dreams, colliding.

Between the folds of empty sleep,
where consciousness stirs to rising.
A space exists where dreams and thoughts,
ever, are colliding.
In that space, uncertain time
and distorted image obtain.
A stairway to nowhere, a gate never closed,
and a thunderstorm without rain.
The dead live on, there.
The unborn too,
in places well known, to sleeping eyes.
Although we have never seen them awake,
they are places, that we recognise.
A recurrence of dream or half dream?
A life gone or one yet to be?
Synchronistic parallels enfolding?
Flashing visions from Chaos’ sea?
The zone of the Locus Coerulus,
a darkened patch, deep in the brain;
accesses areas time out of mind,
which I visit again, and again.
So who is that maid with the raven black hair
and a skin that is ivory pale?
Where is that gallery hewn from old oak,
in the flames, with a broken rail?
Where are those streams through the flowers?
Those mountains of lilac and gold?
And why is that man in the post office van
so much younger, than when he was old?