The Ultimate Season
Sometimes it feels I’m escaping physicality;
as the background seems to fade;
imagining I’m just an illusion of reality;
a fool in life’s empty parade.
I’ve come to know; that life is a dream;
mere thoughts; becoming surreal;
nothing, in life, is what it may seem;
it’s much like riding a Ferris wheel.
Sleep has become, my respite from trauma;
when conscious; I rarely have peace;
physicality brings forth, nothing but drama;
if only my nightmares would cease.
Sleep is when God stands at the helm;
ruling over the affairs of man;
our thoughts reaching for another realm;
at the footstool of the I Am.
Sleep is our time for rest and repose;
where troubles no longer exist;
there is no body; no fingers or toes;
only peace, alone, persists.
Many think dreams are born of imagination;
wishful thinking; is their root;
instead; dreams are forums of confrontation;
exposing us to the truth.
Death is the ultimate season of sleep;
where consciousness returns above;
from all we’ve sown; in death we reap;
it’s vital, we only sow love.
Monty 3.3,26, # 3,199