Wishful Thinking
Dreams are the imagery of what we long for,
neural playground for the literary soul, to wander,
with flashes of memory, their fabric ripped and
slurried, run with others, to rise dripping with thought
and vividly there. Ripped and wrenched, stirred
in the vat of short-term memory, dislodged from
common sense. Shaken, melded, fibers rearranged
to both nonsensical and realistic themes.
You and I astride some great behemoth,
talking of pashas and rainfall,
the taste of what we wanted, the feel of hands on,
of legs, of us becoming in the brief neural flicker
twin stars which never fade in that brief immortality.
