Dreams That Died Before Growing Old
P Patti Masterman
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In misty churches of my dreams
I reunite with dead family members;
A storm is coming, do they mean
To stay together: nothing's as it seems.
In dreams are things that might make sense
And other things that are there by chance,
But who can sort the living and dead;
A dream is like a hypnotic trance.
I awaken, and the past rears up,
I see where the dry rot's taken hold-
Emotions that were never processed-
And dreams that died, before growing old.
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