There are few dreams

There are few dreams

Worthy of remembrance

Nothing comes to mind

Unless it screams

The memories we have

Are soon forgotten

In the waking

Unlike when we were children

Spiders on the walls

Monsters in your head

Crabs beneath the bed

Waiting to nip your toes

When you step down

Onto the linoleum

Cold as ice

Even in summer,

When Jack Frost created

Patterns on the inside

Of the window

Where did all the time go

Busy chasing rainbows

Without end

When the treasure

Was always within reach

If we looked closely

Though darkly

Grows the journey

Into winter

Without the warmth

Of accumulated memory

It will be a few degrees colder

Inside your head

As you grow older

Alone, beneath the tousled sheets

On your brass bed

Until one day

When you just might

Wake up...