Here, the deer are bored. They stare at you as if

you were intruders in this dreamscape of your making.

A replica of wildness stocked with twitching rabbits,

antic squirrels. A mirror of a woodland engineered

for the weary, the urban stressed, an artificial sanctuary

passing as you peddle this aluminum commuter, “dream on”

blasting from the back pocket of your speakers. A primal

screaming, these energies that echo the waste of your existence.

Once you dreamed the world was rich with rivers, creeks,

these falls, not stinking remnants, once you dreamed this land

was green as firs that stand the border of this now abrupted forest.

Now what do you believe? In memory of this planet like

mirage, the contrails of a song. You doubt that you’ll fail better,

cycling in uncertainties, exaggerated needs …dreaming …

of still dreaming. All things come back to you, the lyrics spin.