Dreaming of figures

I had a vision. Fields alone and dust the king. The wind won’t whisper and songs don’t sing. And in the field I roam, I’m lost. I look on out to see some figure and so I find, alone… I’m not. The dirt beneath my weakened feet, the sure direction that I seek; they seem to falter… Like my feet. No law. No boundary, holds my street. My vision changes and now I dream. My box, unopened, seeps away. It sinks and drips and melts and with the dust, it fly’s. And left this box, my life’s display. I’d seemed to open up my eyes… And watch my troubles rain… Then dry… Then dry and take their king alone. And soon the figure I would meet. Perhaps beside me… While I sleep.