Dream Tender
Dreams are like ice,
Best served cold and crushed,
With a shot of whiskey poured atop twice.
What thaws is but a muddle,
Of the mortar and a pestle,
A poisoned mash of mind playing in a puddle.
How do I mark myself as a dream maker,
When at night I see only terror,
Of what I’ve shook inside a frozen silver shaker?
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2018
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