Sunday, February 10, 2008

A pillow for dreams

listening to the whispers in the dark
Softly cajoling, softly saying, "Come."
To leave this lonely land
of strange people sliding by
to return to the womb of comfort and peace
where the frogs croak loudly in the night
and the birds call brilliantly and light

Pulling with tentacles slithery and tight
Where family is and friends of childhood
and temperatures are warm and dreams are small
their edges dulled by weed and alcohol
a pillow for dreams to be smothered in the night
there in the bottomlands where the dreams have died.

Are dreams too big a price?
The stars are dulled by the bright streetlights
and the damp fog rolls in off the bay
as if to soften the edges of the harsh city lines
where a lonely heart wonders if it is worth the price
as the bottomlands call for dreams to drown.

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