In a dream where what may be real is not seen and unreal is a feeling I have of being there,
uncomprehending in a never ending unconsciousness where fear is the fashion, where my chips are finally cashed in.
It dies and does not remain and supposing the pain was a part of it
I part with it.
The day leaks on into the night follows me back ( the unwitting think that I smoke ‘ crack ‘ cocaine which supposing it was a part of the pain
I parted from.
My name has gone,
torn from the lips,
if lovers were history my name would be
In a dream going on to the next dream in line, time ebbs away like the tide going out from my day,
supposing that I am a part of it.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.