Sometimes the dream was chocolate—
rich, warm, melting on my tongue,
a sweet nothingness
that made everything seem possible.
But other times,
it hid behind a door
like a small child
afraid of his father’s shadow.
.
It would dart ahead of me,
Rudy barking at its heels,
both of them chasing ghosts
down side streets
or after cars with no destination.
.
When it wasn’t chocolate,
it sat there—
a lump,
a meatloaf of a dream,
stewing in its own juices.
A bad baby
with a full diaper
and no one to change it.
.
How I miss those silly, innocent dreams,
those harmless flights of nonsense
unspoiled by the rancid smells
of this world\'s heavy breath.
.
Now my dreams whine,
they drag their feet through dark clouds
and spill into too-long nights.
They bring gray-bearded strangers
with hollow eyes,
their faces collapsing like old walls.
They are tired,
these dreams,
just like me.
.
I know, I know—
I have to live with them now,
the nightmares and terrors,
the jagged edges of midnight journeys,
each one a trip closer to heaven—
or so they say.
.
And those angels,
their empty eyes,
their too-bright smiles,
always promising knowledge
but handing me
nothing but the cold weight of hope,
wrapped in silence.
.
Yes,
I miss the dreams I once had.
The chocolate ones.
The ones that ran,
that laughed.
I miss Rudy chasing them
into the sun.
© R Gordon Zyne