Tuesday, April 14, 2009

PAD 13

Langston Hughes knew.
An old dream can grow toxic.
Maybe they should come
with expiration dates
to prevent soul poisoning.

Or are they more like wine?
Some vintages refine
in the roll of years,
almost alchemical
in how they transform.
Not all pucker to vinegar.

So, I spend my time dreaming,
useless and wasteful.
At least so I've been told.
More value in a clean swept floor
or a five year plan
than a meandering dream
that makes me smile.

But the dreams,
their bouquet which inspires,
the dazzle on the tongue
which closes my eyes,
transforms lips to

a kissable sigh,
the aftertaste a reminder
to seek more,
the bitterness which sometimes
makes me gag,
race through my blood,
and move me.
Not just in the direction of the dream,
but in all that gets done.

The prompt was hobby.



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