THE DREAM OF ODYSSEY
MYSTICAL DREAMS, PART TWO
This chapter wasn’t planned: it was remembered. Rediscovered, like a lost track humming beneath the static. Sweetie Bird speaks again, not in dialogue but in echo. Her voice, layered and pulsing through forgotten software and half-lit memories, becomes the heartbeat of this cinematic interlude.
THE DREAM OF ODYSSY
I drive cars in my dreams and schemes
A reality of making love in my dream.
I dream of parties,
Of food,
Of eating,
Of drinking,
Of walking,
Of running,
Of living,
Of mafia dreams
So, it seems.
The meanings behind
My movie dreams
Do not fit the mold
Of dream interpretation,
So, I have been told.
I travel in my dreams
To other countries,
Other cities.
Hanging out with strangers,
But in my dream
We are friends, not strangers.
written, created, edited by
Vicki Lawana Trusselli
Trusselli Art
copyright 2025
About the Creator
Vicki Lawana Trusselli
Welcome to My Portal
I am a storyteller. This is where memory meets mysticism, music, multi-media, video, paranormal, rebellion, art, and life.
I nursing, business, & journalism in college. I worked in the film & music industry in LA, CA.
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A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge2 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
Dreams can be frightening or a peaceful escape. This one sounds somewhere in the middle. Just don’t go putting yourself in danger with strangers!
This surreal trip into your brain allows the reader to reap the benefits of life and love, creativity and yearning, and the places in our dreams which haunt, uplift, jolt, and inspire. I shared!