Hyperdreams

A strobe-light sun rests in front of me,
Tricking my escape-artist eyes into believing,
That the obvious is never too close.
It's not like I planned for this.
It's not like I took aside God and asked him why.
Troubles given is time lost,
But when the glassy bubbles of my dignity,
Drift and pop,
You steal away the wand that built them.
My blind, ambiguous hands cling with deathly grip,
To the burning trees.
They look like candles flickering in the gusts.
Flashy embers start and stutter in my view,
Through a solar shiver.
It's not like I planned for this.
It's not like I understand what's right or wrong to say.
Tempers flaring,
Overbearing pressure to get a grip.
The bubbly drip slicks the floor,
Just timing my next slip.
But space between the then and now is twisted,
Out of place.
It's not like I control my dreams.
It's not like I pick and choose who lives and dies for real.
Look away and towards the sun,
Which taunts with dancing glam.
I am singed flesh,
But I am marrow and bone,
Like you.