I suppose that one day I will wake-up to a bad dream
finding life the effect of a salami on rye sandwich.
You see, in this circus, balancing the flaming debris
of the corpus on the chin will burn you.
Is a bad dream really a metaphor for poor choices,
of leaving, staying, saying, mocking angst?
Or, is it a pyrotechnic pentagram filled with all the magic
and ridiculousness that follows an outcome, as remorse?
We are all zombies trudging through our existence until the door
slams shut on tomorrow and your Melba toast gets soggy.
If I swallow this torched frame of life will I disappear, will tissue
papers of the past become fly ash, smokey wisps to my memory?
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour