Dearest Summoner,
Some days your dreams will speak to you in a language hidden in the quiver of your heart, and an anxiousness so strong that it binds you to act on it as if it’s your dutiful part.
You will feel a blissful yet nevertheless dull glow,
unsure if you must do something about it
or perhaps just bask in it
till what remains is an abandoned show.
Your dreams will speak to you on a day so calm, with a sky so blue above you, when your heart stays relaxing in your body, with your mind not threatening you with thoughts mushy and cloudy.
The urge will strike you,
but truly a strike it won’t be.
It will be soft rumble,
just enough to make you question
what it seeks and likely resembles.
Listen, for it will come again and again, but be certain to ignore it no longer. Give into it from time to time, for it must not forget your door to knock when it comes to break the skillfully crafted boulder.
If you stay too long in the plain states of wants,
the doors that once opened with a voice of enthrall
will fall to the rhythm too soft to be heard
amongst the other distracted calls.
Other days, there will be no buzz felt on the inside of you, as your dreams sleep, no alarm for you to snooze. You’ll be in confusion of their existence, your head aching to make sense of this latest absence.
The sun will feel too harsh on your skin,
and your eyes will squint
towards the overwhelming sky,
wishing for it to darken and dim.
The fullness of your purpose will feel scrambled and hollowed out, where no emotions reside in your body and no excitement for that next charm of your willfully attained dreams to work out.
Life will feel bereft of meaning,
your thoughts elaborate,
but none too gleaning.
But remember you must.
Remember the dull thud of your heartbeat which once rumbled and the ache in your head that was once just ideas jumbled. You must remember that days like that will come again when your eyes won’t hurt and your mind won’t arrest your thoughts in a rusty mesh.
When you lie in your bed of cold glass,
discomfort wrapping you in its arms,
let the old memories be your trusted guide,
let the casket of dull feeling come to the surface to fight.
Let your forgotten mind feel the restlessness of the now mingle with the peace of the past somehow, for the courage to go on must be put on while you put the crown of wilted leaves down.
If still your body is unacquainted with peace,
let it drown in misery for a longer bit.
Let it feel into your sharpening emotions,
let those emotions chisel your unresolved notions.
Let the force of the world not match the will you subject yourself to, for the only relief tended to you will be of your own warm support cradling you as you walk the dangerous paths through.
When you sit again
facing your previously numb dreams,
let them look into your soulless eyes,
and fill them with light that distinctly gleams;
Let the agony be remembered as the soldier you not-so-rarely fight, for the glory you always forget must be forever embossed for the uncertain approaching nights. But fear you must not. The practice of the clashing swords will sharpen your edge, leaving you uncaught.
Remember, fear you must truly not,
for the battle with the enemy
possessing charmingly dark eyes,
an unsettlingly recognizable face unlikely by choice,
must come to an end when understanding is sought.
Once the balance of fright and the obscure interests of the soul are set right, you will be ready to conquer the world of unjustified lows and unreachable growth of simmering new heights.
For the stone to be molded
into a remarkable gem,
unfortunate it is that its core must be exposed,
witnessed, and foretold without contempt.
When the rows finally line up in the subconscious as in the conscious, so in the fashion of bold and fearless you will come out a winner to be witnessed in a manner so whole yet so obsolete, the dreams of yours will become truly yours to soothingly fill and to ruthlessly deplete.
Summon, dearest.