Still Meditating

It was lovely.
I'm convinced
that a dream of a house
is my soul,
sometimes too crowded,
once filled with shit,
often on a cliff.
Last night, I dreamed
of my house, my soul,
of having so many rooms
I hadn't counted them.
There was room for all of us.
There were views of mountains
and a river
and trees in bloom.
There were rooms
with large cozy beds
and fireplaces for cool nights.
My house was clean and painted white
and had a refridgerator
that was deep
and full of food.
Food for my soul,
a safe place
to look out over the world.
In my soul,
Nick and Mike were safe,
though we lost track of time
and space
and they were late for something.
We lived on a hill,
not too steep.
I've dreamed of my house
on a cliff, offering only vertigo,
of living under a rotted roof,
of junk hanging from rafters,
of crowds coming and going
as they pleased.
Those are the worst dreams,
when people wander through my soul
as if it belonged to them.
This dream, this home,
was mine
and any people there
were loved
and were welcome.
I have begged for tranquil dreams
for a change.
This dream, I know,
was a gift. 

Thank you for listening, jb