We awake in the morning, brush teeth,
comb hair -
remake the dream.
Overnight the edges of reality fray,
pieces of the dream flake off,
vision becomes threadbare.
The dream must be repaired each day
or we might question
the reality of combing hair
and brushing teeth.
You said you saw the pastor
hiding in the corner of the shabby church
smoking, and looks worried
That Windmill turns no more, quietly stands
Silently prays and loudly mourns
For it never forgets how people scorn
That old car parks by the roadside
Pieces of paint, peeled and flake off.
Traces of rust, tell the stories of long gone trust.
That rocking chair at the front porch, screeching
Sings songs of lonely, only winds can understand
That old tree stands firm in the grassland
Treacherously tells things we can never stand.
Red bricks and concrete, scattered on the ground
describing the cheerful moment when
pieces of broken hearts were found.
That smiley wolf wears a three-piece suit
patiently tells kids the value of being mute
Weeds, powders, and pills
Have become the ingredients of feel
You said that you saw the pastor
hiding in the corner of the shabby church
smoking, and looks worried
I see the sounds of praise,
rushes away in a hurry.
Sandpaper noise of idle chatter
intrudes upon my inner thoughts
Scraps flake off their intelligence
to show the ignorance they brought
How grandiose they believe themselves
in opinions they all voice
Just mere babble spoken as truth
as though their egos have no choice
Gathered in packs like wild dogs
seeking the weakest in the herd
Working to hamstring individual ideas
by using all the current buzzwords
All that is missing is their soapbox
from which they can pontificate
Upon an unstable foundation
spewing words that carry no weight