Captive Dreams

My stories are like words scribbled on mute walls of dark rooms….

You don’t see me…

You don’t hear me ….

I am just a name in your list;

Just a number in some census.

You ask me questions and urge me to speak.

What should I say?

What should I write?

My stories are like words scribbled on mute walls of dark rooms.

Where no light ushers in.

Where no breeze blows.

The key lies lost, somewhere in the blackness.

When I close my eyes, I see a beautiful world.

Where sunlight shines like diamond, in the morning mist.

Where the soft breeze caresses through my hair.

Where tiny squirrels scamper by, and hedgehogs hide in the bushes.

Where swallows and snowbirds take playful flights.

I see golden fields swaying beneath azure skies.

I see chamomiles blooming in fields of dazzling white.

I see tall birches turn the colour of gold,

And maple leaves turn into intoxicating red, red wine!

I see frost paint patterns in white.

I hear the waves crashing against cliffs and shores.

I hear birds chirping in the warmth of Fall.

I hear the snow fall in the silence of the night,

And blanket the earth in a veil, so white.

I hear the autumn leaves rustle beneath your feet.

Yes,….. I hear the dry autumn leaves rustle beneath your feet.

A whiff of smoke and coffee mingled with the fragrance of rose,

Comes wafting in, and sticks to the mind.

Winter chill and the smell of warm spring,

And fragrant autumn breeze, fills the senses

Like a never perfectly recalled scent.

But you don’t see me.

You don’t hear me.

I am just a name.

I am just a number.

My stories are like words scribbled on mute walls of dark rooms.