Disconnect | A Poetry Chapbook

19 | Stolen Dreams

A satchel hidden under a pillow
Invites me to a witness stand
Before racing off to a willow,
I remembered the dirty hand.

And he sweeps away from under the eyelids
Never to be seen again
Leaving to me, away, he bleeds
I had to catch the next train.

But I remembered the dirty hand
And its deeds
Grey were the torrents of sand
Beneath my lids.

And the shudder woke me back to sleep
There were riders in the sandstorm and pit
Lost were my dreams that were to keep
Let the porch in my head be lit.

And I flinch from the dusty corners
And a void of webs and screams
The smudges after odyssey that adorn us
Were thereafter, how lonely the dreams!

I couldn't make out his face; he was so limpid
But the way he absconded was familiar
Oh, if he wasn't so insipid!
Perhaps, that wouldn't be so clear.

Clearly me!
Another break at the dawn,
It took to gauge the audacity
Possessed to putrefy my own.

My thief sieved through the cone and rod
Asked me if I wanted less
The night was growing warmer and hot
Can I have them back- the days?

~ Ithmam Hami, 28th August, 2023, 4.19 am

Explication:

In your dreams, reality is shifted completely. You are an effector of that reality without even working for it. That's why we call it a subconscious game.

I wrote this particular poem in my dream, in my hypnagogia.

I lived a dual role in my state of slumber that night. I watched myself go to sleep and then get disturbed by a thief. He slipped his "dirty hand" beneath my pillow and took something away.

And he sweeps away from under the eyelids
Never to be seen again

While I should have moved on -

I had to catch the next train

I started wondering instead who that might be and what the surrounding environment looked like to figure it out -

Grey were the torrents of sand
Beneath my lids

After waking up from that nap, I felt restless and chaotic. I started developing a sense of loss and loss of wit -

There were riders in the sandstorm and pit
Lost were my dreams that were to keep
Let the porch in my head be lit

It was not something new. Now that I look back, I feel a lot of my poems at the time gave off the same message. I was hurt and broken and all my dreams only faded with time -

The smudges after odyssey that adorn us
Were thereafter, how lonely the dreams!

When the realization hit me at the time, I was smiling to myself. I remembered the thief leaving as I woke up in my dream. I couldn't see his face but his posture made it clear who it was - it was me myself.

Possessed to putrefy my own

I was self-hurting. I was not myself. Every night was a night to ponder why and I had all the answers.

Just like the dream, I was hiding from myself. And I was stealing from myself. Every time I took, I took away a bit of me with. And now all I'm left with is a longing to go back when I was not dreaming!