Inception

Inception

In London’s misty twilight, as the city’s thoughts fettle,
The first spark is a whisper of a world yet unfurled—
A seed, thin‑shaped as a dream in a mind’s gentle gravel,
Planting in our wake, a quiet, silver swirl.

The first of all dreams, the very womb of the muse,
Where ideas, like sparrows, rise from a quiet pane,
Pulse through the memory like a dulcified fuse,
Colouring the air with a borrowed, borrowed bane.

Within the cinema’s hall, the film begins—the score,
Johansen’s strings, a ticking clock that softly stops,
Yet it is not the dream‑reality that we truly explore,
But that strange moment when a thought becomes a drop.

Layers upon each other sit down like a polite party,
The briefcase, the woman, the handshake, an encore—
On canvas of sleep, they twist, they form in caricature,
Leaving us to wonder which layer is the core.

In the world outside, the start is a simple blink,
A breath held once, a word just let glide away,
In the labours of existence, the first and last link,
The spark that paints our days in a brighter grey.

So we wander, forwards, like in a dream that never ends,
Scribbling on the margins of a future yet to be.
Each beginning is an inception where the make‑up bends,
The web of fate spins gently, longing to agree.

And when the curtain falls and the last note is heard,
We’ll know the story inside: a seed that never stirs—
The idea bloomed, the inception, mute but heard,
A quiet promise humming in a quiet, hushed stir.