feeling again
The famed catcher of souls, the dream catcher. One soul, particularly, that he follows like a little lamb, relentless, passionate in his fight for purity. Purity that he will imaginatively grab with his long, slender fingers, intertwining the boy's immaculate soul with the sinews of his web, ringing it into a lifeless, dilapidated form whose citrus juices are forever lost in a glass cup. Only a dream.
The boy is alive, living, more than ever, or hereafter.
Younger and more susceptive to the damaging effects of hatred
and ignorance, the soul, panged by sorrow for mankind and
the harsh, yet harmless, nature of humans, attempted to say
farewell to the bitterly cruel reality in blissful flight like a white dove that miraculously escapes from its prison
with the touch of a magician's wand.
However, the spell was broken with the snap of the dream catcher's thumb and forefinger; of the taut leather belt,
that was tied around the neck of the young, naive
boy, like a light blue gift box choked by the
crisscross of the crimson, satin ribbon.
The boy is alive, living, more than ever, or hereafter.
Younger and more susceptive to the damaging effects of hatred
and ignorance, the soul, panged by sorrow for mankind and
the harsh, yet harmless, nature of humans, attempted to say
farewell to the bitterly cruel reality in blissful flight like a white dove that miraculously escapes from its prison
with the touch of a magician's wand.
However, the spell was broken with the snap of the dream catcher's thumb and forefinger; of the taut leather belt,
that was tied around the neck of the young, naive
boy, like a light blue gift box choked by the
crisscross of the crimson, satin ribbon.