A Transparent and Logical Dream

Life reflects. In its smallest forms,
And maybe in its earliest,
Each already carried echoes

Images of their own machines,
Miniature mise-en-abymes.
The larger then echoed smaller,

Although maybe growing thinner
At the vaster, upper levels,
The way Earth thins to atmosphere.

In the midst of all these shell games,
Lies the question, where is the dream,
Where did the dream go, which shell holds

The dream? None of them do, it seems.
The dream is not a shell itself,
Not an echo or reflection,

Not mirrors mirroring the scenes,
Not even funhouse mirrors, since
Those are distortions and repeats

Contiguous to their sources,
While the dream is nothing itself,
Transparent and logical dream.