Dreams

The bag of dreams has fallen into day,
with tightly knotted mouth and swollen shape,
as if to tease the memories of night
and mock the truth of what we call agape.
It is as if time gathered shreds of thought,
and dropped them into flimsy sacks,
full-blown, and bloated within mind,
released by sleep; adulterated facts.
In trying to sift through the scattered forms,
a search for meaning silently arrayed,
there is within the action deep desire,
that purpose and some reason are displayed.
Confusion has a coy and ancient face,
as if the dark had birthed some alien child,
and in the bright becoming, all erased;
narcoleptic journeys – hope defiled.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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