The Dream

 

The rain was pouring down,

I was soaked to the bone,

Sitting on my suitcase,

In an unfamiliar town,

On an unfamiliar street,

Lost and alone,

No change in my pocket,

No sign of a payphone,

People rushed by,

Eager to get home,

I stood up and ran,

For a nearby doorway,

I took shelter by a greasy-spoon cafe,

There was a sign in the window,

That read,

Closed, Monday to Sunday,

I opened up my suitcase,

Which contained a big heavy scrapbook,

Nothing else besides,

It had photographs and handwritten notes,

Newspaper cuttings, ideas, and quotes,

Memories from a bygone age,

Which I tore out page by page,

The wind carried them down into the gutter,

The ink bled across the paper,

And the rain seeped into the pages,

Passers-by trampled them,

Leaving boot imprints and mud stains,

I seemed invisible,

My suitcase lay open at my feet,

I crouched down next to it,

And stretched out my hand like a beggar,

While all my worldly possessions,

Disintegrated before my eyes,

I didn’t seem to mind,

The rain continued for many long hours,

I sat silently  crouched there,

Not a single soul stopped or turned around,

I was just another face, in the photographs,

On the ground,

Another newspaper cutting,

A minor note,

A ghost in this town.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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