Dream Factory

A vague room consumed by a cloud of shadowy ink,

Gears twisting, scraping, grinding,

Glistering strands weaving through the vicious teeth.

The iron hands seizing the strings, crushing them,

Molding them into dark-colored silhouettes of deception.

These damaged dreams have yet to fly

To those who await with dead and senseless minds.

Elongated bones and flesh.

Spiders of the body, twisting the strings,

Collecting them in rolls--

It’s time to soar.

They shoot freely through the tight pipes, hidden from the world.

Black holes of traveling thoughts and dreams,

Bland walls of restraint.

No longer shimmering, they plummet towards the bottom,

Gusts of wind directing them to different ways.

They are free.

Free to be rejected.

Blasting furiously out of the minds,

Rotten and scorched, they drown in space.

The sewer of unwanted dreams awaits.

They are free.

Free to follow their guided paths.

Found by fortune and the vicious claws, they drift into the minds of people,

Senseless and impartial

To the world,

Soaking up the strings that intertwine, tangle with their thoughts.

Faces veiled in silver tears, streams slithering down to trembling hands.

Heinous laughter convulsing the reclining bodies.

Conscience surrenders, the battle is over.

The same spidery fingers drawing on the strings, their eyes filled with poisonous satisfaction.