I hung from my brass bed frame a catcher for my dreams
To filter out the bad,
the ones that haunt,
the ones where I feel caught.
Still, I wake and feel the loss.
What is it about loss? It’s ironclad grip
On our subconscious, invading our dreams.
Like a fish in a net, or a stray dog on a leash: caught, caught.
Last night I saw an old friend caught on the shore
Of some ambiguous waters: quiet, at a loss for words.
And the only time we meet is in my dreams. Only in my dreams.
If only the catcher would have caught my dreams.
If only the catcher would have caught my dreams,
I would be spared that wretched cursed loss.
I would be spared that wretched cursed loss.
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