Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I'm writing my dream on Kleenex.
It will be crumbled in the bathroom waste can.
Outside the wind is talking to a neighbor.
The lawn crew down the street is talking to no one.
The shadows of trees are on many lawns.
The dark night is riding in a carriage
jostling, clacking, shuddering, behind curtains.
There is nothing to feel, not even boredom.
The wind begins with empty movement, then grabs
a wisp of smoke, a high up leaf detaching,
a brazen bit of speculation,
while I look in the mirror, examine my left eye,
find a pimple on my nose, a bit of blood
on my lips; a body is such a disparaging thing.
I dream when I close my eyes and float
like a cloud above the day, below the moon.
Everything glows with expectation, meaning,
but you, who are busy tidying up your own dreams,
don't care.....

The peaceful life
illusions on the half-shell
and then lunch

Nothing to feel (anymore?)
Modern times were going to change that,
but they just seem more of the same
shadows on lawns..

(Only a fraction of your Poem, I know..)

but at least you are inspired enough to write a really good poem.....I like the journey....the everyday motion in any neighborhood and the coming to grips with aging and perhaps the loss of ambition....I really like it