These Dreams

 

Where do the dreams go to die?
The great throes of a beast whose being shines with an energy of a lifetime.
The elephant graveyard of hopes, where the bones crumble and crack in the burning sun of reality.
Do they die at all, or hibernate under the covers of life.
Forgotten about until the final hour, to flash across our eyes like signs on a road never taken.
These dreams wither; they fold and float away on the winds of existence.
Spirited away like the seasons of youth.
Like leaves from a tree they decay.
Never watered, chopped down before the seed ever even germinates.
These dreams, forever in my mind yet always out of reach.

Ever decreasing circumstance

It’s like a cold and stormy morning.
That day she tried to warn them.
Snapping her twig bones with the weight of circumstance.
Trying to walk away, curled up and tortured.
Dusting the regret from her hair.
She wants to be elsewhere.
Trying to disappear into someone else’s dream.
She tuned in to reasonable fear, Taipei to Tel Aviv.
Skirting the frequency of moral decomposition.
Trailing the warm currents of the sky above.
The damage appeared as they beat the drum.
Pounding in her skull while the water rose.
Feeling trapped like a goldfish in a bowl.
Swimming in her own coincidence.
Roll her over, watch her breathe.
Drinking in the rain as she dreamed once more of far off oceans.
Setting her sights on another orbit, while they set her on fire.
Breaking her from the rooted home, and that look in her eye.
A slow dance into dismay.