One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams.

You'll be dead by then,

unable to protect them

any more.

They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams.

They'll want them for sure,

they'll want them.

They'll want them to try and find you,

to try and discover who you were.

They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt,

seeing what they can find.

Digging up the dirt

to see what they can find 

in there.

They'll discard this piece here, another piece there.

Dross from the dried up remnants,

They'll hang on to the moist bits.

The juicy bits are worth further analysis.

You may be in there.

In your dreams.

Someone else will scrabble to catch 

the dry pieces,

those fragments of dreams thrown away.

The little pieces blown away in the air.

Little snippets,


But there are flakes of gold hidden there.

I hope they don't find them.



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