The Author of Dreams
A pen to your head, slowly inking your mind
Blind author of dreams, old hand scripting fine lines
Queer and blood red ink, it’s traits like old wine
Some find it revolting, others call it divine.
.
A girl keeps on falling, hurtling through the air
The rush of wind blows chaos into her long hair
Descending the dark abyss, giving in to despair
Wakes up in cold sweat, the abyss isn’t there.
. ..
Exuberant joy and pure happiness in full
A young man succeeds in what his heart dreamt to do
Teleportation theory, transport’s new breakthrough
Death of the course called traveling, cars and airplanes too.
. .. .
She feels the seaside breeze upon her sunken cheeks
Eighty seven years of life, now she’s frail and weak
Closes her once radiant eyes, tears roll fast and thick
Turns to see her lost husband beside..
“God, I missed you, Nick.”
. . ..
Sound of tossed soil hits the wood, in the bleak mist rain
He’s staring blank into his grave, thinking he must be insane
He sees Ma and Pappy dressed in back, his friends, they all came
Then he sees an old and crooked blind shadow,
writing on his friend’s brain.
dreaming is how you comprehend the art
of the blind author of dreams. .. . . ... .
Blind author of dreams, old hand scripting fine lines
Queer and blood red ink, it’s traits like old wine
Some find it revolting, others call it divine.
.
A girl keeps on falling, hurtling through the air
The rush of wind blows chaos into her long hair
Descending the dark abyss, giving in to despair
Wakes up in cold sweat, the abyss isn’t there.
. ..
Exuberant joy and pure happiness in full
A young man succeeds in what his heart dreamt to do
Teleportation theory, transport’s new breakthrough
Death of the course called traveling, cars and airplanes too.
. .. .
She feels the seaside breeze upon her sunken cheeks
Eighty seven years of life, now she’s frail and weak
Closes her once radiant eyes, tears roll fast and thick
Turns to see her lost husband beside..
“God, I missed you, Nick.”
. . ..
Sound of tossed soil hits the wood, in the bleak mist rain
He’s staring blank into his grave, thinking he must be insane
He sees Ma and Pappy dressed in back, his friends, they all came
Then he sees an old and crooked blind shadow,
writing on his friend’s brain.
dreaming is how you comprehend the art
of the blind author of dreams. .. . . ... .
resolute at 8:08 AM
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