I have cut the meat from dreams
and hung them here,
melodic golds and vibrant prose –
meanings hidden in the rows
how quickly is a dream devoured,
down the line,
and by the feaster they have savour
for but a morsel of measured time.
I have cut the meat from dreams,
and sold the sinew and skins, as well –
and quickly now I am becoming
one with no dreams left to sell.