The dream is light prismed, shared,
splintered. Each of us is a fragment
of each of us, half realized. Corrupted
by lies and money, fifty stars bleed on the fabric
as these hearts bleed between starched sheets.
The era of dreaming is over, prismed, shared,
splintered. Each of us is a discarded letter,
torn in equal shreds. The dream is light
peeking through blinds of jealousy,
between sips of alcohol. The dream is light
flickering, extinguished. The dream is over.