Anything That Bled

He just don’t sing the dream, that makeshift miracle lives in his eyes, watching himself walk a path posers attempt to settle.

Just don’t seem right, the angle is a bit too high, and it’s getting hard to tell where he’s been and where he’s going.

It’s getting to be a little difficult to focus. He doesn’t see things like he used to, but when he closes his eyes it’s still there.

It’s still there, a beacon glowing through the pitch of night. More real, more tangible than anything that bled, the dream pulsed and boomed in his head.