Halls of mirrors

For a start
none of this is real,
no one could
have walked into
another dream.

I was awake a thousand
years for a long time
lifetime past,
but it seems
that someone’s dreams
of space
went out and
sucked me in.

who scratched the surface of
my world?
who cut the fabric free?
who took the cloth?
who made the suit?
who was it fashioned me?

but there’s real and this was none of it
and there’s real that sits below,
there are maps that shine like beacons
to show the way we go.

Sometime trapped between the two
never knowing what to do,
my reflection looks back
and I see who?
so it’s
absolutely useless asking you.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.