I can tell I've come to the end of the dream
By the way the cymbals crash
And the lights go down
And the corners of a big curtain somewhere start to squeak.
Or, at least, the pulleys
That have been groaning,
Holding up the gravid threads
Through all those acts
Begin to squeak and squeal in glee.
Five o'clock has come for them.
They can punch their clock, go home,
And let go of all that heavy material
That separates the dreams
From the realities,
That separates all the world
From the stage it plays out in.

But what time is it now for me ?
Is the dreamer of the dream
Now half asleep?
Or have I been half way awake for all this time?

-jenn