by Ann Christine Tabaka
Along the path to tomorrow,
we shall meet at the bridge
that spans the unknown universe.
I stand looking off towards the sun.
Going the long way home.
No time for detours.
The crow does not fly
a straight course.
Lost along the road to nowhere,
beliefs evaporate into droplets
of disenchanted time.
Winged chariots fly off
into the sunset, taking with them
our hopes and dreams.
Liberate the thunderbolt.
Unleash the singing hands of time.
For above the clouds,
there are no more castles in the air.
Apple pie scented mornings.
Metaphors meant to be dissected.
As the road reaches another bend,
At last, home is on the horizon.
Gilded morning shatters sleep,
dreams cling on with tenacious teeth.
A confused reality sorting through
a fragmented emotional state.
Warm bed, cold toast.
Sensations linger throughout the day.
A boy’s voice, a woman’s smile.
A forgotten combination from
the locker in the empty hall calls out.
A swimming pool where there is none.
Fingers trace circles only the mind can see.
The scene drifts then vanishes.
Slowly sloughing off images with a shudder,
A resemblance of normality settles in.
As evening nods its head,
a whispered sigh snakes into the night.
Living in a world of half dreams,
only to begin again tonight.