The Ephemeral City of Dreams

This city... mornings arrive with dreams.
Dreams, soft and swirling, painting the air.
But evenings... evenings steal them away,
into a vast oblivion.

Streets are flooded. Not with rain, but with churning clouds.
They descend, a misty embrace, kissing the heads of people,
then drifting on, whispers fading.

The wind... the wind whispers tales.
Tales of slumber, a lullaby for the city.
It writes poems on the leaves, poems of forgetting.

Here, time itself seems to slow. Clock hands freeze,
the sun, lost in its own chariot of dreams.
People walk, but not quite awake. They move towards
the land of sleep, a pull they can't resist.

And sleep? Sleep drapes itself over the city,
a comforting cloak. But on the sidewalks,
flowers of dreams bloom, vibrant and fleeting.
Evening descends, and they wilt, their fragrance lost.

A bridge of dreams pierces the sky. Not stars,
but eyes, the eyes of dreams glimmering in the night.
A bridge leading... where?

In this city, mornings bring dreams, evenings take them away.
But where do the dreams reside during the night?
That, my friends, remains a beautiful mystery.