The Dreams We Weave

The dreams we weave
the lives we lead
in pursuit.

To mollify
that small child
crying
silently
in a lonely upstairs bed
ignored
so he thinks, angry at, silently screaming:
"Momma and Daddy (down below).
I am good. I am great. You'll see."

Youth melts in tears. And years.

New friends, new success
So important.
Grown now,
in another place.
Of course.

Then back.
Sooner rather than later,
back.
Death is always a surprise.

To carry shovelfulls of green earth.
Home.
Dollar bills, really, tinged with a hollow laugh.
To bury the old folks.
With an expensive headstone.

Yet; when it is all said and done
(an old expression, no?)
The same scream, really.
From a new old bed; in the new old town:
"See, Mom and Dad, I matter!
Does your universe have ears? Like the Easter bunny?
Look at me. I matter."

Then.
Another surprise.
Meltdown.

A visit to a final grave.
Theirs? Ours?
Both
Night.
To hide childish grown-up embarrassment of daytime,
in darkness.
To lie on the earth
and embrace them now.
Open-armed.
Finally.
In tearful plea
for forgiveness.

Foolish now.
Young/old journeymen.

The journey ends where it (should have) began.
In their loving embrace,
Down the wooden stairs
from the bedroom to theirs
into their bed
"The boogeyman, Mommy, Daddy! He says I don't matter!"

They would have said "Yes, Yes, my daring, you matter" and
Covered with their warm sheets and quilt,
the miracle of cuddle.

Now with stains of grass and dirt.
Final total solace,
in the arms
once again,
of blood.

All else was for naught.
Money. Success. Applause. Others.
Blood is all.
Tomorrow. Now. Forever.