THIS dream.
I am walking through a tunnel between the streets. Air as thick
as my misconceptions of life. The gutters are gone but my fears
fulfill the deed.
A passing light of brilliant orbs dazzle me then I am walking
across a cache of weapons and I see my feet amongst others.
The wolves’ den.
“Who are you?” One asks.
I am a dream walker.
“Are you crazy?” asks another.
No. I am here for reasons unknown.
“Kill him.” says the one with shifty eyes.
Why would you wish this?
“He’s a pig.”
No.
“Bro, do you have buffalos running around within
your head?”
Yes.
“Let him go.”
I love you all and please learn from this: if you
do all that is told then you are not living a brilliant
life as you can.
And the buffalos will trample you one soon day.
I wake up.
:: 09-17-2017 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 