The spur of dreams are
only screams inside of me.
Risen from the soul but
stuck in my throat, I try
to voice the needs
and instead I always choke.
Push me along the lush seas,
lay me out under the velvet sky;
cover me in poison ivy green
and then drown me in a midnight tide.
I will never find time to sew these seeds,
and lay to rest my dying dreams.