A Prose poem by Anon ymous
Sometimes there are no dreams. They are replaced with sounds; sound visions. More often they’re quiet: the low shuffle of grass in a summer breeze; the rumble of wings [always black] against a humid sky; a voice [background singer] a cappella. I’m too young to remember stories with happy endings; the street where I grew up is long gone; the dirty white house at the end of the block, painted melancholy green. The window I cracked open to sneak a smoke is boarded up; I would take you there but I’m too afraid you might be disappointed with the silence.