Dreamscape: Original Poetry by Thomas Martin Saturday


My dreams rise
from cold ground
sun burning off the fog,
my naked aspirations,

a faint heartbeat
of hope
left for dead
in a back alley of the heart,

unrealized visions lie
to taunt us with their

the finishing point
cycles, seasons pronouncing a life,

passages through many deaths,
consumed in fire
and blue most ruin;

there they fly

set against brown hills,
white mountain peaks
they’re mine!

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