That Dream, Again

I spent too long

listening to morrissey's croon

walking the esplanade again

And I had that dream

Again

The one in which I wake up in a field of fir and ferns

And there are people who love me

They are all made from imperfect molds

Time and age and the weary sands of experience

They smile, they do not judge

When I fail, they do not shout to the heavens

When I talk, they simply listen

When I learn, they celebrate

When I grow, they guide

And it is not a digusting feeling

It is not the cold discomfort of someone's skin

Touching against your will

They rest in the grass

And watch the clouds pass by

And sing Jeff Buckley Hallelujahs

While the clouds flow the distant horizon line

Thin filmy white clouds like gauze that lets

the soft ageless blue pierce

And when there is touch, it is not the forceful

Unpleasant kind

That feels like a skin dipped in acid.

Or the shameful disgusting intimacy that frightens

It is simply love.

But then I wake up, from a dream that feels too real

The sunlight harsh

My bed empty

And I curse Morrisey for letting me have

That dream, again.