I dream of the one who dreams
of their future like a sunrise,
endless visions and goals,
excited butterflies in their gut
wondering
which amazing path will take them
to the horizon.

As I dream of the one who dreams,
I sit swaying slow and numb
on the edge of the empty living room
where my bare toes touch
the cold hard tile
just to feel something.

My mind runs through why I’m here
once again, trying to convince myself
to bear another sleepless night
and another dawn,
another day searching, fighting,
surviving another day running
after hours I can never catch,
another day living at home
in the distance.

There is nothing that can find the void
or unearth what’s missing.
The storm is never cold enough
to shake me awake.
The run is never intense enough
to drown the chaos.
The sun is never hot enough
to burn away the memories.
I just exist
paralyzed inside a broken home
dreaming of the ones who dream.

I peer out the window
at the revving cars, flying birds,
and people bustling in the golden dusk.
A community of dreamers
chase the moonlight
to get one more errand,
one more flight, one more embrace.

I watch the world, weary
and withered. I feel the sun setting
on my wrinkled life.
My nails want so badly to peel back
the nightmare on the horizon,

but I stare past the dissonance
into an unchangeable reality
as sundown triggers the only
recurring dream I own
of a world passing like a movie reel
full of the devil’s acoustic laughter
mocking the things I never did.