STREETS WHERE I DREAM

STREETS WHERE I DREAM

Haunted it seems are the streets where I dream,
The tunnels and the labyrinths through which I scheme,
The dusty, dim lit thoroughfares I walk a wounded misfit,
Not knowing where life ends or where my death begins,
Not knowing, alas, if I care a whit.

Care a whit for the sound of my tires swirling in the muck,
The ground up debris of what used to be me,
Before I gave up on my living and luck.
Cursed they be, the streets where I dream,
Or the streets where I hide in my nightmare.
Where I wake from my dreaming drenched and screaming,
And find alas there is nobody there.
Except the eyes of my lover fair who sees me through it all.
He cannot pacify me, I must go alone,
Tumbling like some reckless stone,
Down the mighty rabbit hole that I nightly fall.

Hushed and hidden away are my deepest fears,
The snake that coils around the neck,
The doctors commenting on the health of my heart,
They listen but can’t find a beat,
At the finish line before I start,
I taste the bitter and long for the remembered sweet.

Cracked and crumbling are the streets where I dream,
A bitter end where REM is laced with fear and danger.
Where at every turn, there’s a hell that burns
And an unforgiving stranger.

The streets where I slave and misbehave,
Destroying all vestige of hope and sleep,
A strange medieval museum slave,
I wake in a web where the mesh is deep.
Tangled like a vampire’s prey, I lie here and I waste away,
A man once so imposing and now so small and slight,
So willing to throw down the rubber gloves,
Surrendering without a fight.

The streets where I dream are grim and paved with hot coals,
The coals of recrimination, the coals of fear and blame,
The streets where I dream are a color scheme
Of viscous dark crimson where my spirit lies slain.
Where the lost coins are tossed in a messy blur,
Into the holy trinity of all that they once were.

Haunted it seems are the streets where I dream,
The dusty dim lit thoroughfares I walk a wounded misfit.
Not knowing where life ends or where my death begins,
Not knowing, alas, if I care a whit.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED