• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 08


Sometimes when it is very quiet
And I can manage to slow the
turbulence in my mind down
to a dull roar

I can see dogs, cats and birds
sepia toned, like an ancient photograph
an image of an alternate past, present
or a future

That doesn't or can't exist
I almost think that I see me
translucent like the way I imagine
a ghost to look

But then the phone rings
or a noisy bus trundles by
and I snap back to the present
again aware

Why is it that in our dreams we imagine
perfection in missed alternative lives
but can only see the worst in the world in
which we exist?