There once was a man who could capture dreams
He would use an old VHS player to record them.
When it was done he’d write meticulous notes
on what he had seen,
and store it on a shelf.
The shelf had grown large
with rows and rows of his subjects dreams.
The dreams showed a vibrant inner life.
Dreams of love
Dreams of sadness
Dreams of dreams
He would sit and watch
marvel at their complexity
at their confounding hilarity
so he decided to play his own tape.
He had recorded his dreams every night as he went to sleep
But never had he dared to look at them
scared of what he would see
with shivering hands he found his tape
pushed it in the waiting slot of the player
and pressed play.
He watched in horror until the tape was finished
The tape was blank, showing nothing at all
Ruins are culture become nature
What will remain when it’s all said and done?
Will you persist?
Will the world drift back into it’s own consciousness
forgetting the thoughts that engulfed it
Will it float alone through the darkness until a spark ignites it
with a thousand new thoughts
a thousand new memories
and culture is born again