Brown Recluse Dream

The universal dream is still alive. But has become a ragged recluse. Having fled hearts of negativity. Though wingless it still breathes. Dreams move about the deepest greens and blues. Looking for peaceful place to roost. When the pace slows you can see it, That speck of gold in globes of gloom. That flash in corners of blackened rooms. Yes, the dream is alive but lives afar. Tending to a million scars. Spinning toward pulses of positivity. Within the vapor of wayward stars.