Silversmith of Dream

Dreams frolic in the basket of the mind. Like Easter eggs on Sunday grass, pastel hands for slowing time. A misty- trusting face, just beyond the frosted glass. A spirit mare with fiery mane that licked the heart with lips aflame... then backhanded your naive face into the fangs of loneliness refrain. In place of friendly smiles were sirens with hollowed hearts, void of any grace. The leather souled elders taught you the art of kneading hope then weaving scars. Turning a room of bitter spirits into angels taming the bucking flanks of moody stars. The golden mouthed flutist whispers of a long- forgotten dream, when ice cream trucks and noon church bells flowed into the soul like rose petals on the wind... When streams of angels waltzed with innocents.... upon a stage of gilded rosaries. Now, everything is forever lost. The flesh-the bone- the burlap- the silky sweet. The heavy metal of our youth minced into the thinning cloth of age. Most every soul is gifted to the silversmith, who forges halos and shimmering wings... while a few are hung upon the tusk of the icy, gray slag heap.