i’ve tasted the broken back of a concrete laden with the burdens that were never its own, dressed in disillusion, and decorated in the cigarette butts that (may) have numbed that disillusion for a moment-
And like every other, that moment is always spent somewhere far off
Everyone is where they are not.
Limping with reluctance.
Good intentions; their crutch.
they paint their excuses with circumstance
they paint their dreams with reality-
the reality of a darker dream they refuse to accept
AND
every time the late night shows are seized and held hostage by a scorching sun,
or the windowpane of a bus becomes visible against a distant colony of stars and the driver announces your stop
every time a pair of exhausted eyes opens to see a desk and there is a throbbing mark on our forehead from where we had passed out learning the lyrically convoluted language of a chemistry book the night before
well,
we wake into our delusional dream
and speak with neighbors to be POLITE
(there is nothing here)
Meanwhile
The trees observe and they grow. Sometimes, they die.
And the clouds…. The clouds waltz to the whim of a gentle breeze.
Sometimes, they convulse in horror of a hurricane.
They have never been anything outside of themselves.
(there is everything here)
So we dream when we’re awake
Dream of waking into a dream someday
Where waking dreams awake from dreams
Of wakeful worlds and dreaming fiends
