Dreams are Dust

Dreams

Are old

hat,

hard

and unforgiving,

But I dream

them anyway

Because

Like Paul,

I can feel it–

The old me

suffering

to strangle

The new.

But in every

Instance,

There’s

the renewing

Of my tired

mind

and a remembering

That death

Is done,

Dreams

Are dust,

And the

Feel of fingers

on my throat

Is a phantom

Itch

at best.