Lucidity
Tori L. Wilfred
You are not sure you aren’t dreaming
you read that there aren’t any more dreams.
The blood on the rose thorn gleamed at you
mocking the whiteness of your shirt
as you left her for work
knowing you would never come home
the sun danced with your car on the ride
that took hours longer than usual
the bridges over the city were miles long
the parking lot to the building expanded to cover
half the planet
you reach your desk-finally
and the blood on the rose thorn smiles at you.
The dream is here
the paper reporter lied
dreams never die