The Journal

A bone.
A breath.
The dust wavered and played along its breadth.
The journal of dreams he had kept.
Memories of visions and visitations of beings of this world and the next.
Once at the back of his mind,
Now held between his fingers again.

Recollections of vivid dreams of frolic and grandeur,
Of fright and fear.
Memories of pen on paper,
Etching a fading picture of subconscious conscious.
Where foe and friend and family,
All equally malleable.
Liquid and flowing,
Through new scenarios and variations,
The tides of his day at night did play,
In his theatre of dreams.
Regrets and remorse,
Alongside fantasy and fancy
But he wished to recollect them no more.

A sigh.
A sound.
The book was returned to where it belonged,
The light played along the face of its owner.
He turns and leaves as the door closes behind him.
Only a skeleton of his humanity remained in reality.
No longer between his hands,
His dreams now returned to the dark, deserted back of his mind.