Dreams: A Stream-of-consciousness poem

We are closer than pure bone and blood and masses of flesh,
In our dreams.
If the air could choke,
We would burst inside the labyrinth of dark,
Tethered to a different, transient world of our making.

But then, the sirens of our night stories blare,
Following the heartbeats of ghostly tracks,
And we remain curled inside our mothers' wombs
Maybe for too long, maybe wandering makes us complete.

Did you cross boundaries, crawl a fence in your nameless, bastard dreams?
Have you ever been washed over in the river of your fertile dreams?
Have you remembered alive poems and dead histories, deceased family in your dreams?
Do you remember the form and breath of your dreams?
What is the universe, the truant language, the essence of voices
Spinning around inside your closed eyes, in your dreams?

In our dreams,
We become the spirit of awakening, dissolving.
The wondrous dark and the blurred light
Returning to the beginning of life
Returning to the beginning of sun, moon and the wind.
We become the surrendering of the earth, the fire,
The water of our beings.