“The Time Traveler’s Strife”

I lie beneath the sheets and dream
of those who came before.
Of authors rolling in their graves,
enslaved and nothing more.

Of poets lost in endless rhyme
enjambed from life to death;
they wrought their wrath in spectral gasps
with every dying breath.

I lie beneath the sheets and dream
of colors lost in time.
A gilded mess of muted grays
obscured by viscous grime.

Of brazen blues emblazoned true
on emblems, raised on high,
of timid, torpid, sluggish green
with jaundice in its eye.

I lie beneath the sheets and dream
of scenes I haven’t set;
a face I can’t remember in
a place I can’t forget.

For I can only dream so much;
the sun must also rise.
Imagination soars, it seems,
‘neath solely starry skies.

I lie beneath the sheets and dream
of those who’ve yet to be;
of people who will know a world
that I shall never see.

But all the while I lie awake
with present friends in mind.
I listen for approaching steps
and cheerful sounds in kind.

 

 

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