The UndeadSometimes it's eight, nine, or ten when I wake up and the images flow like gold into my mind. The dreams have returned like a honorable soldier, like a faithful servant. They filled me with such hope and happiness and confidence that I could achieve them, what I desire. Then he came. The world, the word, the look, the thought and they do many terrible things that the images start to rust. By dinner they are caked with age and weigh heavy in my mind. By bed they burst and turn to dust where I believe they will never be golden again. Alas this is not true for when I wake up they are born anew.
KKmm3 18-21, M 0 Jun 25, 2012