Dream

A man in black walked down a street.
Cold rain pattered roof and ground,
and rivers formed beside his feet:
the world was a torrent of water and sound.
The streetlamps each wore golden veils
made of raindrops falling near.
The man in black quickened his step,
losing the race against his fears.
Not a car passed, nor a soul;
he was alone, and so he felt.
Lightning cut the opaque night;
the air seemed to distort and melt.
The man looked up, and through wide eyes
saw paper falling from the sky.
The rain had turned to fragments
of what may once have been a poem.
They fell like snow, and on each one
was written a single word,
each in different handwriting,
some scribbled and obscured.
He panicked and began to run,
through swirling waves of broken dreams,
the lamps were burning, hot as suns,
their veils becoming ashen streams.
He tripped and fell down on his knees,
his breath caught in his throat,
for on the pavement before him
were words that he once wrote.
They were scattered all around
amongst the ink from other pens,
but he remembered perfectly
how the note had read:
“This will pass, like all things do
in our fragile, finite lives.
Even with darkness surrounding you,
never lose faith in the light.”