I had a dream, a dream debased
by my own hedonistic excellence
and opportunistic waste.
It is not every midnight
that hero worship comes to Morpheus’ campground,
but he came forswearing fame.
The forests were burdened with his winged contemporaries
vocalizing his name.
How his halls throbbed with blood,
a woman’s blood.
And how the rooms that I came in–
to were stained
with the fluids of his stamen.
I came seeking treasure,
a ring, an amulet perhaps.
And oh, he offered.
I balked; he was injured.
I offered him reticence in the absence of light
and felt an even greater plight.
On my right, I saw the tower and the crescent moon.
I wanted hysterically to dance toward the noon.
I saw the crescent, found myself wanting and running
towards my namesake
the dawn with…
his pilfered chocolate liquour cherries in my theiving arms.
Oh, the dream, the dream debased,
such opportunistic waste,
he could have had my liquours for the taste
but my final ambition was to add to my waste.