some dreams slip in through cracked doors
at night. nocturnal emissaries that lost their keys.
spilling out from the locked
filing cabinets of our subconsciousness,
chemical defragmentation — screensavers
for our souls because even in sleep we must be
distracted from the process of living.
some dreams slip through our fingers
while we’re running toward them. fireflies
in a jar without a lid.
tiny flashbulbs of a future that’s
safe, and smiling, and finally standing still
— because slowly is the only way to
get there even as we heed the starting gun.
we arrive, yes, but slick with sweat
and carrying two empty hands.
Thanks for reading. Please clap, follow me or enjoy another poem.
🐝 beth
