Night stalkers; hate bringers; throat singers
Floating about in throngs of three and four
In oceans of dark light. Stars and gummy bears
Chewed in symphonies of infantile delight.

A dream, nonetheless, is nonsense usually.
They create castles of our subconscious
that mean nothing to us when we wake up.
We all march to the kitchen to get a cup
and fill it with some liquid: coffee, water, tea
all eventually forgetting the proud disorder
forced on us in our active and energetic dream.

The sun has risen, and we will count the hours
until the moon is there. Home, home again.
The clock tells me it’s time to sleep once more.
I evacuate into my bed and prepare for the unknown
now.

A young boy was there with me in a snowy place
he grabbed my hand and led me on a path
of what seemed like unchartered territory.
His hands were cold and warm like a new scarf.
And the boy started to run.

I was behind him, his arm outstretched, connected
like a rusted chain under salty seas.
But there was something there. In between us.
The sun beat down on us, dribbling its light.
It was then I noticed that he himself had no shadow
for I was the shadow of who he will soon become.