THE DREAM — by Michael Burns
And gold leaf, on guilded aluminum…
the rot deep, in the body of the thing.
“Tear nee not, and sommelcore,
and afreezan too sheck ne gree”.
The crowd grew on the stair, and flowed up and slithered down.
Round ornate newel and spread through the arteries of the building,
like it was a thing alive and pumping blood, onto…
Hidden places tucked in and separate and without an escape…
back there behind the rustle.
One way in, and one way out.
And massive tools lay on the truck, and I slipped away in secret.
On by it and around I go, and
the ocean, I saw, and the wall behind it.
I felt closed in and held in that place,
they watch my dream like a movie on a screen.
They are visual and need my images,
caught in something they will…
Never ascendible from there.
Never leaving it, they found us in our vision.
And they are forever voyeurs now, the ones who watch,
and I feed them life, defined in pictures.
And early I heard them on my roof
the soft footstep and creak of my timbers.
They are so curious those little ones…
they were made and we were not.
They are to be pitied, poor things locked here forever,
just looking, just watching…
always watching, the dream.
Always watching the dreamer.