In this dream I cannot
even read my own decrees
that have become the wrinkles
of my brain in actuality because
the steamroll of life is comin'
to try and smooth them out but
it ain't big and yellow with
no flashing lights. It's not thoughtful
enough to tell their labor fee.
When night paints black on the moon
a dig toward the tunnel below
the rock and the hard place will be
my way out like how leaves wave
hello in the wind during fall while
they try and remember
the branches from which the fell.
It's their last descent
as the sun walks them home.