Good days are utopian,

lying low in dystopian dreams,

as time crumbles—

like potato chips sizzling

on Summer’s gas oven.

The smell of burning satiates.

and the clock strikes—with blood—

through morning’s soft illusions.

A heave of sigh—and the vehicle

rolls into realms untoward.

Man is a utopian creature,

an orgasm of speculative pleasure,

while reason crisps and curls

like leaves in a burning summer.

Dreams come true in dreams,

like a shattered boy swallowing

sweet sugarcane from golden fields—

but the gay field lies broken in reality.

Dreams come true in hallucinations,

where a farmer tills his fertile land,

earning what seem like golden coins—

but the gold turns bronze in waking life.

Gods arrive with candlelight in hand,

two hundred garlands wrapped around,

but the thundering breeze blows out the flame.

Utopian dreams are utopian dreams,

and dreams of utopia are dreams of utopia,

and dreams of utopia may approach—

until the eyes wake up and whisper, "dreams."