Chocolate Dreams

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