Reflections: White Scorpion

Simply A Dream

We are softly . . . sensuously . . . impaled upon

the unicorn’s curved horn of our dreams,

relentless . . . in our pursuits while suffering the


suffocating deserts of Arabia or the breathtaking banks of the Yangtze,

picking up all the dropped flowers of our forgotten lovers;

raised images float and meander with the rites and rituals

of our shared mythologies . . . instincts that have kept us apart for centuries;

tribal rhythms of our collective fears are passed along

from one generation to the next . . .

from family to family . . .

from child to child . . . but, listening is muted by the sounds

of butterfly wings furiously fluttering our breathable air

and the cries of babies too undernourished to care;

tears roll down the faces of marble monuments,

money collects like dust on the canvas of unsold paintings,

religious beliefs are bounced back and forth like ping pong balls

without the knowledge of spin or counter-spin;

we sleep on beds with linen sheets

on mattresses made from the ground,

we climb on the backs of others to pick the sweetest fruit

while making sure their feet are firmly on the ground;

and when life’s vessel finally springs a leak, we can frantically proclaim:

this life with all its ills is simply still a dream.

31Jan12