Dreams are too cruel,

they either wake you after the chase,

when short

of breathe and the object of your anguish

slides into the shadows, the laughter of a thousand

screaming nightmares rebounding billiard ball like

against the empty echo that the cushion

over the mouth to stop your own petrified scream

is happy to assist with, even going as far

to enjoy the muffled choke of terror

that the dreams provide it, like food,

sustenance, the pork chop in gravy

to keep its own part in the play fresh and required…

 

Or they lavish with detail of how much life is great,

the surprise face that you yearn to see

as you open the door after several short

welcoming knocks on the hard, recently varnished wood,

the disclosure of a secret in which makes you smile

even though you are fast asleep, the amazement

of scoring that Wembley last minute goal,

being told you have lost sixty pounds,

or the kiss from the woman of your dreams

as she slowly suggests more than just

the lingering kiss of passion; leaves you feeling

alone, battered and bruised by your unsympathetic subconscious

to the point where there is no happy medium,

and the cushion gets paid overtime.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015