Dying Dream

Frosty Sunset

This is how it went
on a harsh winter morning –
wreathes of breath
rising over a carpet of frost,
insulated pockets of heat,
hooded, eyes downcast,
all rushing to get inside.

An old man stood unmoving –
cigarette breath, coffee teeth.
Ashen, untamed beard
beneath a cracked-concrete face.

Lovers walked past,
all reaches and whispers,
oblivious to his presence
as he stood and stood and stood –
feeling the empty space amassing.

I approached him, curious,
and he spoke to me of his life,
as we felt the world turn –
turn around the centre of us.

The skyline was beautiful,
lit in orange fire,
and a wind blew
through the darkening street –
the cold sting biting through layers.

He looked at me
with his grey eyes –
those tired, grey eyes.
We’re trapped, he said,
all fallen into a daydream,
unable to wake up –
and the dream is slowly dying.

 

© 2015, Gavin Zanker.

Photo by icarus47 licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic.

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