Wayward Dreams

Wayward the dreams come and go, just staying long enough

to make the impression they
should, a deep-felt fissure in our sleep

where the replacement is made, where what was…is now what is

that we barely detect with held
breath, a shudder felt slight (but deep)

 

things change all the time; sometimes with a bang, but…sometimes

a whimper and a cry so soft
that its often never heard (heard clearly)

the changes within our souls, the hue and cry of inner landscapes
shifting

changing…ever changing…what we
feel most often and dearly

 

time is such a mean bastard yet the kindest soul we know in this
life

it allows us perspective, it
suspends disbelief, it pushes us to innovate

it creates the need to define our reactions to these many varied
changes

it pushes us and pushes us to
reach deep inside in order to create

 

some create with words and pen, some with brush and pigment on
linen

some with sound and voice that
touches us deep within heart and soul

some with kindness spent haphazardly on the many in need of it the
most

…some with a single kiss on
lips prevented prior; a frailty rising, a deep hole

 

as sang; dreams ebb and flow and sometimes they travel away from
home

left to our own we imagine with
eyes closed…that the dreams haven’t left

a sleep not restful, moving and fitful; ultimately exhausting;
mercifully brief

walking in a land of fevered
choosing, thinking inevitably of our death

 

and while we do this, we don’t do so in a somber or darkened
manner

just knowing that the journey
ends one day is empowering for the time we have

where we are, who we are, what we are and what we hope we will be

are all the things we imagine when
our dreams are a thing of the past

 

happiness happens when we give up the idea of being happy and just
are

whomever we turn out to be and
we smile knowing that it all will continue

with us, without us, with the rest of the universe cheering us to
greatness

with the rest of the universe
not caring who we are; good/bad, old/new

 

the end of the story is never just “the end”…only the backside of
a new beginning

because as we live and converse
with time; we can only look in a forward direction

we usually can’t see the other side…unless we learn the elusive
trick to do so

the other side of the end, the
place where our souls will make a selection

 

the trick? The elusive trick? That is not written down in any book
or on the lips of any man?

It is buried deep within all of
us, an attribute of our DNA maybe or a structure in a cell

It is within us and without us and a part of the everything and
nothing at all

               
It is the thing that is us, the complete “us”, the thing that we can never
really tell

 

we are dissatisfied with these words but they make the sense
they are supposed to or that they can

               
they point us to other thoughts, other wayward dreams, in order to help us
figure out

things that we are allowed to know…by our DNA, childhood, the
universe and just ourselves in fact

               
they are the things that lighten…and eventually bleach into whiteness…all of
our doubt.

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