Wielding Dreams

Salvadore Dali: Woman at the Window

When I look,
it is not backwards or forwards
for those judgements, now
are beyond my reach;
not mine to make, to say, to know.

Over my shoulder, yet
precursor to the progress of my thought,
a rambling through delirium
Of questions, and probing
to the achievement of nought

Perhaps I lie.

Through looking back, I see
where I would really rather be.
Too wrenching to visit those climes
whose intensity recomended them
to a forthcoming day – minus woe -
that hasn’t yet come.
Not yet, no.

Sadly,

in sculpting the future,
snippets of Before insist
quite staunchly on inclusion:
‘Ode to me, be governed by this.’
The bastard past
of scalding, in a warm cradle of fleece
that I must insist
should persist no more.

But do I desist?

Ready as ever, rat pee on a factory tin
I draw out my familiar canvas
of where your smile begins;
burned through your hollow cheeks
and your calves spring you up,
so ready to rise,
to jog your way free.

Oh the places you said
you would take me to see!
You are still my back drop
when now I want you not to be.

But my engine is creaky now.
There is a sad finality to my weep.
A bit of damp on the old cheeks.
And a cry so savage, the timbre is deep.

So.

That would mean a bye-bye
to you forever.
About-face on all our dreams
being lived out now by others.
Not ours to wield anymore, it would seem.
The time for youth has gone
and the sea of hard choice comes.

Two oars rowed to an island
and there were laid apart -
where one inquired of the sky
and gleaned nothing,
where the other atoned for the past
and gained nothing.
Where both, they breathed for a tomorrow,
and breathed some more
and are still,
in separate unison
Breathing…
Panting…
Choking…
Is this death?

Not in a nutshell, no.

But suppose,
Just suppose.
One dream uttered in two voices,
ventured by two agreeing minds,
is the sling from the past
which will haul us at present
into the dewy future?
Suppose it was strong enough
to make its defectors renegades?

What would we do then?