Oneirism.

I.

Bubbles in my water glass,

why?

Aligned perfectly,

5 millimeters from where the water ends, they stop.

10 millimeters from the bottom of the glass, they also stop.

II.

I hear trumpets in my left ear, as if guiding me in a direction.

Misplaced in time,

in the empty Opera House.

Good old times,

champagne and cigars.

I smell deceased and burned skin.

III.

The table wood smells of time,

although it’s appearence brand new.

As I type, I feel the keys pushing back against my fingers.

As if refusing,

the weight of my flesh.

Chlorine and filtering running down my throat.

The frequencies in my ear getting louder.

Crunched paper written on with what was once a moment.

IV.

The piano playing jazz,

the glass crashing into one another as the prosecco runs down the esophagus of hundreds.

The lamp looks at me weird,

turning off and on in Morse,

saying I had done wrong.

V.

In a heartbeat, you’re in your cubicle,

The sun shines beyond the glass.

A haven for ideas, yet they wither,

Unless whispered to the soul.