Autumn Under Morpheus’ Dream Tree

I want to go back where I belong-
Far from this banal-retentive place;
Away from the sponge of satire
the city scrubs me filthy with.

I am going to climb back into my butterfly gardens,
under the teal umbrella tree on the hill,
swing from a hammock of moss,
bask in the heat of the orange afterglow of morning,
and eat pineapple with my fingers.

I want to ride the country fields on a mare of alabaster,
to feel the soft wind caress my cheeks
with the pungent sent of hot pomegranates,
and let my hair fall strewn behind me
in a waterfall of lilac,
And watch the faerie dragons skid around me like a maypole.

I await to sit again on that wooden bridge;
the salmon and yellow one with hearts in the carved railings-
the one I constructed myself from dream and memory.
I want to sit there in the middle of it
and let my toes carve into the laughing face of the gentle brook below,
with sprites dancing around my crown like a stain glass halo.

I cry; my eyes bleeding sorrow knowing I may never return.
To think the chill concrete can bind and decay my passage back,
duskening my memories in a feeble attempt
to shackle my fiery heart in cold finger of iron.

No-
Not me.

The dream child will return.

I

am

going

home.