"Street of Dreams,"

by Eben

A Guided Tour for the Affluent

Come and stroll a lane of dreams,

where nothing quite is what it seems!

The scene you see is apt to float

Like mirages of a misty moat.


The hourís late, the sky is red,

The Lord is coming, yes, He who bled!

No mercy will He bring with Him

for those who donít invest in Wisdom...

for those who donít listen to Wisdom.


The titles to all the castles you see

belong to owners absentee;

The flowers in the flower box?

They donít need water, just like rocks.


The fountains spout right from the ground.

Artesian wells? Or pipes unsound?

The street is silent, without birds,

itís eerie, strange beyond words.


See those people? Phantoms all,

the same stuff used in every wall;

And those lawns--you need not mow;

Theyíre made from strips of greened Astro.


Dreamless people tour the lot,

they think that happiness is bought,

someone elseís grief and pain

turned into their private gain.


Someone elseís anguished night

somehow transmutes to their right;

Never mind the blood and tears

each flower and each sidewalk bears!

Each window, broken, stares on back,

haggard, worn with care and lack;

Each door is hanging loose, ajar,

no bitter wind is given bar.


Each tumbled chimney, sagging roof,

is met by eyes that gaze aloof;

Each rutted lane and weedy yard

is greeted by a heart grown hard.


The widow, orphan, aged pair

go unseen, they seem not there;

The lonely cripple, sick shut-in--

designer furniture within!


Hear that dying rattle in the room?--

Chopin to an ear entombed;

Mansions raised to othersí dreams

nightmares turn and horror streams.


Mocking all who stroll and pass,

the residents greet rich and crass;

They know theyíre really there.

These visitors? Mere vapor, air!


The roses? They spring from hearts

trampled, torn, and pierced with darts;

The very soil is the same

that once soaked up a brotherís blame.


Cain, we read, lived on this road;

His brotherís worth turned to a goad;

He struck and Abel lost his life,

and Adamís home collapsed in strife.


ďWho is my brother?Ē is still asked

now by those who pass with lifted brow;

They use no club, no knife, no gun,

Yet the murder still is done.


Indifference and selfishness

Can slay with the same deadliness;

They pass by othersí crying need

to indulge all these dreams that bleed.


They do not mark that someday soon

these dreams will turn red like the moon;

Illusions most think beautiful

will shift to judgment cups brim full.


And, so, be careful where you step!

That primrose path on which you crept

is razor thin, a sure, sharp sword

that will return via the Lord.

Butterfly Productions Home Page

Northwest Poetry Home Page

(c) 2010, Butterfly Productions, All Rights Reserved