Brown Recluse Dream
The universal dream is still alive.
But it has become a ragged recluse.
Having fled hearts of negativity.
Though wingless, it still breathes some fire.
Dreams move about the deepest green and blue.
Looking for a 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 other scars.
Spinning toward pulses of positivity.
Within the vapor of wayward stars.
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