Interpreter of dreams

Dark dreams, dreams of love.
Dreams of hope, and haunting dreams.
She read them all...
After a night of dreams, everyone went to her,
just as she knew they would.
They wanted answers. And she had them.
For she was the interpreter of dreams.

She listened to them as they talked to her dreams.
And she read their faces, she laughed, she cried,
she gasped and felt the dreams like they were her own.
And so like that they got their answers and they passed the dream to her.

They needed her...but the truth was she needed them more.
She asked for no money, nor the gold
All she needed was for the dreams to be told.
For she was the interpreter of dreams.

You see, she had no dreams of her own. But she always had theirs.
Their dreams would hold her as she worked.
They would feed her, cajole her.
And when the darkness of the night would befall her,
they would hold her close so could sleep without loneliness.

But then something happened. Unexpectedly?
She felt something new. A new desire. Hope.
And slowly the people stopped coming. And so did their dreams.
The nights became unbearably lonely.
The people dreamed theirs dreams, but never came to her.
Had she lost the ability to feel theirs dreams.
Was she no longer the interpreter of dreams?

As she lay one night, no ones dreams to coax her to sleep.
For the first time in her life...she dreamed a dream of her very own.
And she became the interpreter of her own dreams.

Time

How long had I sat there doing nothing?
I am not sure.
Well, it was long enough.
I was bored. I was absolutely bored. Out of my wits bored.
How could I have become bored of something I liked doing so much?
But I suppose if you do it long enough, you eventually get bored.

As if suddenly, I realized how much time had passed by.
No, not the couple of hours. A much longer time.
An eon.
And here I was counting the time. Backwards.
It was no longer about the boredom, was it?
Or about what was to be done(wish it was).
It was all about what had and hadn't happened.

More importantly, what hadn't happened.
Because what hadn't happened was what caused what had happened to happen.
Pathetic.

Dance Dance Dance

Dewy leaves. Whistling wind.
Billowy gowns, with handsome bows.
Bright smiles. Sparkly eyes.

Chitter chatter.
Black carriage.

Bright cheeks.
Wisps of hair flying everywhere.
Greetings. Gossiping.

Piano notes on the floor.
Sing Song. Sing Song.

A look here a look there.
A smile sly. A smile shy.
Yes with excitement! No with politeness?

Hands in hands. Step by step.
Dance dance dance. AND. Dance dance dance.

Deafening Solitude

The ditch when seen seemed small enough.
Yet that is when you aren't being asked to jump down it.
Or being forced to. Or being pushed into.
I was wearing my white pants that day. A constrast to the dirt.
The bus dropped me off at the bus stop, along with others.
But instead of going home I was being asked to jump down that ditch. Being forced to.
I didn't want to. I really didn't. The ditch seemed never ending.
The bottom, dark, full of dirt, stones.
But before I knew it, there I was standing at the edge. Staring down.
My stomach turned. Nausea getting a hold of me.
Was it the prospect of the jump that really made me nervous?
I held on. I wasn't going to jump. I was not going to let them make me jump.
A step back. A yelp, a taunting word.
And then a push.
I was flying. And then falling.
The smell of dirt filling my nostrils. Its taste on my mouth. The stones piercing.
Yet the laughter was worse. Far worse. And then salty tears.
A few moments. In that turmoil. In that awkward position.
Eventually the laughter ceased. Everyone had left.
A deafening silence.
A new calamity. How to get back up.
How to get back up.
How?