Dream, but responsibly
I don’t think I had much to say,
standing like a still-born tree, 100 years old,
a leaf to wear as a half-glowing Tiara
in the morning dew and sunbeam,
I don’t think I remember my earth-lusting
roots,
Standing on the sidewalk, I was blowing kisses at the sun,
hadn't met him in ages you see,
but I saw the number in my dream...
the number of cars that stumbled by (uneven-pebble-afterlives)
thinking I was insane,
The sun came by at the doorstep of my dream
a little later and we laughed just like the cars. At the cars. Stumbling by.
but cried each time either went to the wash-room
after the draught emptied itself like
rusty gun-barrel flavoured memory down
our pretence-lacquered throats without a thought, but only a bag full of dreams,
these cars, like time won’t stop, no matter how you look
or you don’t (for your shadow sitting behind, smoking the same cigarette you are),
nothing is a word they said,
in my childhood and droplets of dreams
of who I will be,
But, it don’t take too long change words into
homeless homes called minutes (and sometimes seconds),
Except that the paper-weight is wearing away,
scraping against broken shards of my tomorrows
and memories stained with the ink, smudged in
endlessly petrified rain,
I first stood on the sidewalk, and then lay down on
the throbbing heart of the asphalt,
now that the sun was begginnng to die once again out of his slumber,
from his bed of razor-sharp
stars.
Then even the railroad waited enough as my hair and my ankles shuddered in utter bliss
as the morning frost lay like drenched Persion carpets upon the tracks.
Yet, I awoke (or did I?), unfortunately alive again.
ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE like the still-born tree!
But the joy of awaiting an end.
An end of what we have been caressed with whips,
into naming life.
I don’t think I am awake as I write this.
So long live the dead. So long dear friend.
And I like summer rain and dead daffodils,
lay inside a box of still-born willow,
with my eyes almost closed, open only for the
dream to breathe. They called it a funeral!
I called it birth. And if I recall correctly, they were the ones dead
by the time I shouted out from the coffin " I am still alive! I am still alive?"
But what if my handful of dreams runs out someday?
I know I'd die without them. Life needs antidote you see.
Will they smuggle it, into this box I live in.
With the flowers laid above me (I can already smell the dream and the rain seeping in)
Even now I don’t have much to say
because I am obscenely in wait,
for something, someone or better still-
Nothing at all.
Oh hell! I remember now,
It’s only my dreams I need.
It’s always just a dream.
It’s only a dream.
So, my name’s time, what’s yours?
