Real dreams

The saxophone blows golden loops
of grief into the golden air…
Amongst the crowd, I am alone –
my life is cracked beyond repair.

The saxophone, the sinking sun
release a web of golden streams…
Not even memories are mine
but only memories of dreams.

The bus arrives and carries me
away from unrhymed elegies.
Not even real dreams are mine
but only dreams of memories.

Christina Egan © 2014