Dream Poem

Dust from a far-away attic
Clings to me.
Snail-lapped mists carry me up
And up, to pleasant, honeyed sunshine.

Short grass, bare feet, dew.
I walk this path of my dreams:
Drink this dark, sweet water.

Now I am falling...
Down into Autumn-inched roots,
Down into neon-lit Medieval times.

The path is hard, though my feet are nowhere.
Wind threads a lavender field
With whispers I cannot catch;
Those flowers are sweeter in color than smell.

Here I stand, his eyes (so young) catch mine.
Red and black, medals, a gun.
You are of my dream - my imagining...
Why does violence simmer in your eyes?

I must leave you now.
I must flee from this metal city -
A factory of stars.
I must to not see that cloaked merchant,
those cows ambling in their field.
I turn from you - dream boy.
I rise into dust from a far-away attic.