Poetry

Dust and dreams

Staying alive as a whole person

when we are all made

of glowing particles of expression

straining

to break free

is quite a wonder, really.

 

All these dreams, all these thoughts

of bounding off into the depths of

 

of what?

 

The image in my head

is a great plain of grasses, rivers,

books, wildlife;

everything I love.

But that is not the depths of anything.

It’s only little me.