Dystopian Moon: Revelation of a Dream
Upon the farmhouse stoop we stood, beneath the azure gaze,
Where Luna's sphere in daylight hung, a celestial maze.
With continents and briny deeps, so stark against the blue,
A sphere estranged from astral norms, presented in false hue.
"They've aestheticized the moon," he spoke, a statement darkly cast,
A tapestry of power's weave, dystopian and vast.
A projection in the heavens, where truth once freely roamed,
Now an orb of grand deception, in silent sky it domed.
I turned away, a heart awash with anxious, pounding tides,
Into the shelter of my abode, where uncertainty abides.
"Why dost thou flee?" the shadow asked, a specter in my wake,
Yet no solace found in walls that breathe, no refuge there to take.
The world outside, a stage of veils, where puppeteers convene,
To drape the stars and script the clouds, to mask what must be seen.
And we, but actors in the ruse, with sightless eyes we dance,
To tunes composed by hidden hands, in ignorance's trance.
What doctrines sown among the rows of intellect's vast field,
Are but the chaff of phantom minds, in gilded falsehoods sealed.
The ruling kin, with threads of myth, weave cloaks of night so sheer,
To swaddle firm the minds of men, in cradles wrought of fear.
And so we question bedrock truths, foundations turn to mist,
As phantoms rule the firmament, by alchemists' own twist.
Reality, a whispered dream, that slips through grasping thoughts,
While overlords in silence scheme, in cryptic shadows wrought.
The moon, a sentinel of night, now cast in doubting role,
Reflects the turmoil of our souls, the chaos of our whole.
For what are we, if not but pawns in grand celestial play,
Where truth is pawned for pageantry, and night consumes the day?
Our spirits, restless, seek the dawn, where certainty might dwell,
Yet find ourselves on checkered grounds, betwixt our heaven and hell.
The wool, so thick upon our eyes, obscures the paths we tread,
With every step, the ground gives way to more doubt's web instead.
So in the dream, the moon revolved, a symbol of our plight,
A globe of artifice so vast, it shunned the natural light.
Yet in its counterfeit rotation, a truth begins to cleave,
That even in constructed lies, the heart will still believe.
Arouse, arise, O slumbering minds, and cast the veils aside,
For in the light of piercing day, no shadows can abide.
The dream, though heart to heart may race, a truth within it vies,
To question all, to seek, unveil, the truth behind the lies.
I had a dream last night, wherein I found myself on the porch of a quaint house nestled in the heart of the countryside, with verdant fields stretching into the horizon. Beside me stood a figure whose identity remained shrouded in mystery. Together, we gazed upwards, our eyes drawn to the moon that hung in the broad daylight sky. This was no ordinary moon though, it boasted distinct continents and vast oceans, mimicking the Earth's surface, complete with delineated national borders akin to those on a terrestrial globe. Unnaturally, it rotated, offering a panoramic view of its transformed facade.
I remarked to my companion, perplexed, "That's impossible. We only ever see the same side of the moon." His reply was cryptic yet revealing, "They've aestheticized the moon." The implication was clear, what we beheld was nothing more than an elaborate facade, a mere projection in the celestial dome.
A wave of unease washed over me, compelling me to retreat into the sanctuary of my home. The man inquired about my sudden disquiet, but before I could respond, the dream dissolved, and I awoke. My heart raced, the anxiety from the dream lingering like a shadow, refusing to depart even as I returned to the waking world.
