Draped like a long forgotten shawl
my dreams lie in my mind, covered with a caul.
No second sight was afforded my disillusionment,
my deluded, discarded dreams.
Brittle decaying hope.
Tattered remnants of youthful vigour cling vine like
to my mind. Was I ever that happy?
Or is that an illusion also.
Born of the caul, as a charm to be deemed unable to drown,
so, that's why I failed.
I watch my past on fast forward, skipping to the present.
Strange word present, meaning: the here and now, or a gift.
My dreams are nightmares, my present is no gift.
My nightmares are the gifts of my present