I am a walking, waking dream.
I dream to dream
about swishy carrots from the Food Bank downtown,
and hopscotches on the cracked cement of old playgrounds.
My dreams are swallowed whole by
mouths too full to chew.
Some are old, forgotten, battered.
Some keep repeating like an undecipherable code made up of decimals.
My dreams are thick,
traveling through narrow tunnels and endless canals.
Too much water seeps the earth and deep into these reveries.
I dream of kids pledging allegiance to the American flag.
I dream of falling through a rabbit hole and never escaping.
These visions are blurred and hectic, made and remade, fallen and lifted, bent and twisted, living and dead, loved and hated...
These dreams of mine are nothing but dreams.
Walking, waking dreams.
These dreams of mine are precious
drops of sun on my tongue.
All I ever want,
is the best for them.
These desires, these hopes, these treasured wishes.
I dream of writing mysteries in a beach-house someday,
beside frothy waves and drifting blue.
I dream of making a discovery:
a dinosaur fossil, a new planet called Trice, the cure for boredom, or maybe supplements for bananas.
I dream of college and a job and true love and peace.
I dream of dreams:
walking, waking dreams.