The Dreaming Die

There is no hope for me

And my army of dead dreams.

Look at them,

My valiant soldiers loyal to the end

Holding rifles, pistols, knives,

Shards of glass.

Pieces of rubble.

Bloody nametags.

All ends point to the enemy,

Accusatory even in death.

Not even the marrow in their bones

Is willing to betray the cause.

.

And they're all dead for it.

.

All dead for believing the soft,

Sibilant words I spoke,

The pretty little lies I crafted

About their beautiful tomorrow.

The "tomorrow" we carve for their kids.

Look there, at the edge.

Yes, right at that small huddle of shadows

Clinging to the far side of the battlefield.

Sons. Daughters. Dreams.

Dead.

.

They watched their parents

Burst into bits.

.

We are doing this for no one.

.

Is that the glory of tomorrow?

Small bones and young corpses?

Shocked faces?

Where is the dream?

Who is left with thoughts unburdened enough

To fly through sunset-kissed skies?

No one. No one. No one.

Because I let them all die on the obliterated battlefield.

We lost.

And here lies my army of dead dreamers.

_______________________________

Silver Serpent Books.

_______________________________

Less of a poem and more of "vaguely organized thoughts on the future". Dreaming seems to be a lost cause and dreamers are a dying profession. I worry and wonder in equal parts about what that means.