Childhood Dreams

They are molding,
                    like greens gone
bad,
mushy as a teen,
like frayed Christmas stockings
long packed away
with decayed faith,
            coddling dust.
They are molding, and any leftover mild
glow culminates
                    as only
memory,
melted opulence
               of youth,
sticky puddle mess
of voice.
The brilliance is gone.

But my cells are collard,
and the same comfort
still nourishes
and they wait
to resonate.

They are molding.  Stale breath
carves out the periphery of now.
Fact is here.  Fiction gone.
Awareness, sliding down
                        like broth.

But....
Trapped, kicking.
Love, kicking.
Fawn or colt, struggling in spring's grass
          of dewy brilliance.

Because the tender bursts forth
like a bubble of gum,
troubling and big,
messy glob of hype
that calms the child within.

And they say this happens
when you get older-
that the pestilence pecks,
mocking,
and I've heard the humming cynicism,
the hidden hive of
                                         feeding lies.

Gone.
The dim glimmer gone.
Now, gone.

But I am seed,
glib
and gliding
up,
up,
dawdling in soil bedding
waiting only to wed
      the ancient sun.

Holed up
by dream hoarders, I am rising,
toward sustenance of sky
bidding me
see
what I am still capable of.

Poetry Jam