my dreams

always wish that I knew
how to make tracks without looking back;
how to burn a candle with no flame,
or maybe how to remove your name
from that imprint on my heart;
slip it on out of my brain --
but it's no use, and my only excuse
is that Now still feels like Then,
and the only difference left
is the size of the noose,
and how much I remain bereft --
ripped, rapped, rocked and uprooted;
if my dreams were more morose,
I'd take them out and shoot them:
that would serve them right,
for being full of you, night after night;
that would serve them right,
for being wound so tight,
for being wound so tight with you.

February 5, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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