These Dreams - Poetry
They run in circles,
Of pure dazzling lights,
Unsure,
Unheard of,
In constant motion.
Flashes of it,
To rest even a little,
Warmth of it,
Hands in a circle,
Rushing through the tips.
A wonder it would be,
A relief even more so,
Or to just maybe,
Quench the curiosity.
A movie as,
To be played out,
In the alternate world,
To watch the course and result,
Comforting in itself.
A dream,
Just one,
A simple dream,
Yet dreams as they are,
Just a shell waiting to be stomped upon.