Bolted from a dream, this dream
Burned to memory like parchment
Embossed, its impression left on
The fragile notes of my reverie where
Remembrance comes alive, reflective
To the touch like hope is tactile to
The rise and departure of superstition
I am a callous apostate, falchion raised
Screaming to the heavens in fiery draught
I reach for attendant understanding trying
To make sense of where my dream has been
As I ingest the facetious smiles
Of angels their humor lost on the very
Manuscript where I record these visions
Their recounting contrasting my conjecture
Finding my own evidence that falls to
The confines of these very words (of doubt)
That anything has happened at all –
It was just a dream.
© K. James Ribble