Dreams lie subtly on ten-foot stages;
Behind closed curtains,
She falls behind starcrossed lovers,
Fragrantly groping for heavens gate;
The pale stench of misfortune, lingers—
Between two fingers, folded;
Calmly, she walks— full of transparency;
The hypothetical ghost— tastes, unwanted,
Like some deep seeded loneliness,
That calls the night— bitter;
I feel the underbelly of you— growing,
Upside down;
Pregnant by some unheard voice—
You hold onto something,
I can never see;
Where is the appeal?
My dreams were never found to be— real.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
