Moving Day

Dreams got tired,
settled in my head.

Stopped working, 
didn’t move much.

Tried to nudge them
back into action — 

they knocked me back,
refused point blank.

I’ve had to let them
take up space.

I’ve learned to let them
do little and rest.

No idea if they’ll someday
turn back to their tasks.

No idea if I’ll be invited
along to do my part then

or if we’ve run
our conjoined course.

If I’m left behind,
may they find a road

to somewhere
they can really move.

My head has grown too tight.
My head is too small

for them to work, I know.
I get that now.

In spite of that I tried.
I did. I tried to make a space

for them up there,
but there was never enough room.

They spilled stunted
works and I know they felt 

every pain I did over that,
but harder, longer, sharper.

I tell them they can go. So far,
they remain in place;

surprised, I think, 
that it has come to this.

When they leave — and
they will leave —

there will be sorrow
but also a release of long-tense breath.

Perhaps something new
then for those dreams. It’s fine.

They were never truly mine.
They just lived here for a while.