Yesterday, I had a dream.
And in that dream was smoking ice.
Forwards, frontwards, all was made same by the by-product of a dying age.
And in that dream was causation,
For the ice was gone and what was left was material made soggy and wet by the once-was-ice, not really gone, I guess.
Then, another dream, a vision this time.
And in my sights was burning fire.
A rapid, restless, rising thing.
Sweeping hilltops and valleys, cleansing and creeping; a somewhat of a Sam Heck.
Clueless, the perking flowers sunk into the ashen earth,
the flattened earth,
and a coat of tar rested on the planet’s relaxed shoulders.
“Ah,” the land let out.
Then, hurried the herring, the bass,
the shrimp, the crab, the god-damn trout,
All of which withered and died out.
“Oh,” the dirt exhaled.
The Mallard, the heron, the blue jay set sail for but a moment, then down came their feathered heads and tails.
“Wow,” cried the loam, agog,
Lain down helplessly beneath a ravenous fog.
The creaks of our creation, in this dream of course, where else? Are a clattering, clambering, pit-pat-tattering kerfuffle within a nowhere man’s hotel.
The hotel of which we speak is of the rotten, no-good, god-awful kind. It ain’t even a building. No door, no window, not even one lousy blind.
It’s more like a structure built on the hearth of the soul,
perched and rickety and just shy of a hollow warning timber,
awaiting all that melting, igniting, that burning kindling,
and a simmering, dying coal.