On a frayed carpet that dresses the gallery of a hotel

In the backseat of a stolen car parked in the parking lot;

In the river over which the sunshine floats away

Or in the corner of a tiny room, that is silenced by humane scream;

And at the bottom of an empty bottle of whiskey

Or driving at a pace that is way too risky,

In the first sniff of a chemical that promises fleeting highs

And between the vacant space of a women’s spread thighs,

It is almost slightly funny, where one can find their dream.

 

Through the broken glass of an ancient window

Or beneath the crust of a lemon pie,

In a new city under an old bus stand

In the flickering glimmer of a firefly’s flight,

Or perhaps in the dizziness at the Himalayan heights;

Amidst the pucker and wrinkles of a barren field

In the last bite of a friend’s chocolate ice cream,

In the emotion of a lost one’s freckled picture,

It is almost slightly funny, where one can find their dream.

 

Sometimes in a drawers of an old cupboard

And in the glimpse of a pearl in depths of a vast sea;

In the silence of a calm and dark dawn

On the bridge to a long forgotten island

Or in the direction where the autumnal breeze fleas;

Maybe in the vortex of a western squall

Perhaps in the shape of the dancing leaves,

Or in the last page of a hidden file,

It is almost strange, where one can find their dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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