A faint glow
Comes from an imaginary candle,
On a hypothetical desk,
Sitting in a cold, fictitious room.

There, sits a skeleton’s shadow, scrawling on a memory.

Thanks to the candle, he is visible:
The Keeper of dreams that people have,
And forget,
In the morning.

He is tireless,
And as weary as the deceptive light
Leaking across the floor.
His fallacious fingers on the wall
Pick up a simulated quill,

And Writes…and Writes…and Writes…

Can’t stop: So many forgotten dreams!
He writes not in letters or words,
But with myths and hollow tales,
Given to him
By The Sleepers

The invisible shelves
Are sagging under the weight
Of holding so many untold stories-
No one reads them, of course,
For they are not there,
And could never be understood.

Only One
Reads the language of dreams.
And he cannot stop.

Only Write…and Write…and Write…

Suddenly he turns his head
-His empty eye sockets-
Looks full in my face with a gentleness
One would not expect to find
In a dead shadow.
I wake up shivering,
And the mock scene is forgotten:

Another page for The Keeper.