dreams are like fireflies,

blinking across lifetimes,

bright sunflowers,splashed with crimson blood,

flashing,twinkling,burning,and dying,

in far distances,

like some errant messages in morse,

they blink on the screen of the conscious,

tradeable,extinguishable objects,

slaves to treacherous consciences…

and i am a trader,a soulless shylock,

lending to myself,

excuses,disguises,cover-stories for my cruelties,

and extracting my own pounds of flesh,

for conscience is a commodity,

selleable to the highest bidder,

exchanged for concessions,

and then,deprived,having gained things and sold my soul,

with heavy steps in hell i dance,

the blind waltz of decapitated corpses,

holding my hollow skull in trembling hands,

glowing white in scarlet light,

flirting with my degenerated soul,

ugly,repugnant,abhorrant,grown alien to me,

i woo it with my dreams,and try to win back my existence,

slave to a treacherous conscience,

and yet the dreams refuse to be traded off,

they wo’nt die,refuse to be deleted,

malignant microcosmos residing in my head,

they eat my heart out, and make me survive,

human;but barely humane..

slave to a treacherous conscience…

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