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Thursday, February 04, 2010

The Dream

This "is such stuff as dreams are made on,"
She thought to herself as she drew water from the well.
Nightmares that is.
She puts the droplets to her eyes,
Drawing them under her lids,
Pulling them shut as to keep the tears from escaping
Back into the wishing well.
The well that is full of dreams and wishes,
One tear for each of the fallen.
And here she stands,
Holding the tears for the dreams next to fall
Just like she grasps at the wishes,
The saltiness slips from her hands.
She understands now
That designing for Shakespeare
Is a dream that is six feet under,
Because the Bard has been long gone for awhile now.
Keeping her eyes closed,
She can't see where she walks...
By touch alone, she digs the hole for the next dream,
Splintering her hands on the rough wooden handle
Of the rusted over spade.
The dream lands in the hole
With a soft thud from its weight.
And the tears fall again,
Back into the well,
Mourning with the other droplets
Another deceased dream.

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