The Dying of the Dream An unfinished poem, a hidden note, and a prayer to be redeemed, made useless as my memories by the dying of the dream. Her hair like shifting sand and the eyes of a mountain stream will fade from my memory with the dying of the dream. I don’t know why it haunts me the dream that never was; she doesn't know she taunts me with everything she does. So I tell myself it’s not holy: not so pure as it may seem, as I kneel to seek forgiveness and the dying of the dream. The purple sky is brooding, churning crimson, gold, and green, indifferent to my terror and the dying of the dream.