Of Humble

The railless train of dreams ploughs through my night.
It whistles and chugs and races out of sight
And I am left in the bed before dawn,
A set of muddy ruts with no memory,
A headache and the corrupt taste of forgotten sweets,
Listening to the last cluck of laughter,
Incomprehensibly hanging in the air
Of an empty room that once was the party in my sleeper.
We are faced with the river that loses its freedom
When it becomes a drink of water and
The rare air at the mountain’s frosty summit
Which becomes a tired sigh.
Things go from what they once were
And our forgetfulness is puzzled by their halos.