BrokenEchoes

I have been a man with dreams I have dreamed big dreams and set big goals Time and life have changed me The size and scope of my dreams are smaller The corners and faces have been eroded From rubbing up against rough days From being dropped occasionally Tripped over frequently Neglected constantly They have taken on a pleasant patina A softness around the edges They are more peaceful, less aggressive They have a comforting weight to them They have endured much But they are still here, and so am I.  

  I drank the strange electric goop And dreamed of gliding through potato soup I woke with my eyelids glued shut And a willow tree growing from my gut I chopped it down and burned the wood Then washed my face as well as I could I went back to sleep, back to sleep This time not as sound or deep If I sleep this way until dawn All day long I will stretch and yawn I fear deep sleep will bring a nightmare But it won’t be restful if I don’t dare This is the dilemma that faces me To be drowsy all day or face that tree.  

  Today might not have existed Maybe it was merely an illusion Only real inside my mind Nothing happened There is no evidence it was here There were hollow hours  And restless sleep And pointless ambling And endless nothing It was not lived,  Barely endured By tomorrow morning Nothing notable will have changed Perhaps we can all agree That this whole useless day Was just an empty dream.

  At a simple gesture The fetid mass begins to glow and undulate The warm of skitterlings scatter, Fearful of new events The chill, damp air softens And a breeze stirs the deep dust Bringing a gentle warmth Unseen here in ages The murky film of muck crumbles from the glass Piercing rays overtake the shadowy corners This diseased, abandoned hovel is transformed At a simple gesture.

  I dreamed a series of stories That I wanted to write down There was a snake that I killed and ate And a fenced field of tigers That I herded and cared for I murdered to protect my family And murdered witnesses afterwards Upon waking the dream evaporated Leaving only water spots of disconnected details The stories are no longer there To make sense of them.