Scurry, dreams,

burrow into grainy, infinitesimal holes,
grip relentlessly onto life,

the false prophet of hope.

While death approaches the circle's end,
love was always spinning poi.
So, why do you preach tombstones with concrete faith, when
you could be surreal, preaching,

"Wise sun rays are
clouds of stolen secrets where
blue herons sail everlasting
white skies,"

The promise of a grave always wills a bird to end his life on the gritty, concrete ground,
when he should have had the sky.