An Incarnate of Forgotten Dreams


Entombed inside me is something that is beyond this state of the world,

beyond all the reality TV show drama, the sex scandals, the murder-suicides,

what a Hollywood starlet wore this week, who got shot and blown up yesterday;

all the poisons that are trickled down on us by wicked hands.

Deep inside this body, buried in the marrow of my bones stirs a collection of ghosts;

all the souls of this worn world that strayed from the mob of blinded.

The ones that retrieved their sight, the ones who crawled on the dirt,

found a way onto their feet, and thirsted for a change.

Inside me they wail and sway, tossing me from side to side at night,

as I dream of their dreams, a world made of their dreams. 

Materializing our dream into physicality is the most grueling of tasks,

but with the highest effort I drag myself to this gleaming goal,

with oozing gashes and perse bruises adorning me.

But I don’t drop a single tear for these wounds,

because behind this face and all its blankets of skin,

the souls rattle with joy.

This poem is about: 
Our world



Wickedly good.

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