trace of sane

In this dream I an dancing.
Dancing, twirling

not worrying, refreshingly washed.
My mind scrubbed clean of apathy.

That is the dream, though.
Remembering that freedom is the scar.
I can fly! I can see my body and I am not
naked but who put clothing on me?
It's me I feel outside of me!

I swear. although,
me, up here-I struggle to
remember one moment
from the next.

What was I saying?

I'm watching myself below myself.
floating with my back pushed against
the inner dome; a painted cathedral ceiling.

Hovering inside, above
painted ballroom in Russia.

The room is lit by chandeliers, a bright light,
thousands of small white wax sticks lit by humans;
but a real light.

Robbed of tears hard to find.
Nothing heals but numb
In my dreams nothing is relative and I feel alive.