Scuttles

 
. . . strolling through a concrete jungle
of no particular latitude or longitude
kicking empty cans that should have
been recycled a long long  time ago
I guess
It was inevitable

I stumbled.

Falling into somebody’s worn out
Sandbox, I came across several
rusted out buckets.
These buckets were filled with dreams.
Left behind in haste
to escape
a decline of suburban rote living ----
would be my first thoughts. . .
impressions.

Why do we leave our dreams
Behind?
Is it because we are afraid?
Afraid of dying………alone?

I see it all the time,
people not really in love
settling down to the very
life  they fled from
only now
their buckets are made of
plastic
filled with
empty dreams ~


or prayers.