“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
— William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Grind to a halt—
the millstone murmurs dust,
gears unravel home’s last breath,
ashen husks in the hush of rust.
A rooster wails the mourning light,
oil-fed horses, iron-lunged,
devour dreams like salted earth,
sold for silver tongues.
Mothers cradle thirst,
latch to barren wells,
a clock strikes hollow midnight—
a father paces through empty bells.
Black lace mourning veil—
unwoven dusk in tattered hands,
purgatory hums between us still,
I wait in shifting sands.
The fisherman laughs,
his net a fleeting gift—
I eat for a day,
but hunger for what drifts.
Crescent moon harvest,
chaff caught in spectral air,
a poet weaves the wind—
and whispers, unaware.
*A dreamscape of loss and longing, where time unravels and echoes of the past linger—
life’s relentless grind swallows dreams, yet the poet weaves meaning from the void.
BB Grey--musings 
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