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

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