does the tree
of being cut down
turned into paper
for another insipid poet

does the wildflower
of being trampled
by steamrollers
to be made into a road

does the dreamer
of waking up
to a world where nothing
is like they dreamt

i don’t know

a half bottle of vodka
an overflowing ashtray
and the wrong side
of the bed
disturbs my dreaming state

the thunderous applause
as the hooded man
pulls the rope
and i sway on the breeze
is more than i could deserve

yet still i dream
of finding my way at long last
through the winding corridors
of absent adoration
teeming with possibilities

what others dream

in a haze
of never will
that blankets the room

threadbare and forlorn

yet dreaming

One thought on “forlorn

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