Dream: Aged Honesty

In a dream of aged honesty
he walked through quiet areas of old and dusty discovery.
Her energy, the soft slightly tangy scent that had filled his mind so often, came and went as cliché as a breeze in meadow. The articles written of her in the newspaper of his personal universe scattered and brushed along the deep tan of the earth, hardened.
Hardened and fruitless as concrete, though still that which is natural and created by God.
Flashes of quiet breathing, sounds that only he had heard in this world; now those things a secret worth keeping.
The freckles traced into constellations, given names, each of them dependent on their relation to the other.
He told stories about them.
Men and Women, Gods destroying cities and themselves simply for a perch on her shoulder.
A thought that somehow now was realized, each of these had been his ocean and his noght sky; covering him in a truth that he could never know, that they could never realize, should never realize for their own sake. It was all a result of what he was looking for inside them. It was all a transformative romanticism of a dream.
The rough of his finger catching as hook and eye to an evening shirt.
The sailor’s sentiment of drowning for the sake if death.
Here he was in a quiet world of hardened earth and soft street lights, and the transmirphic she was simply smiling.
As if, for all that it had been, would be, was, the grin was some solution.
And was it.

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