The Best Dream Of All Poem by I.J. Benjamin

inside the most desolate of mountains,
where nothing is,
a speck of life, exists, breaths and lives,
the little, little hearts of
purpose beat in sync, between the
redbrick walls, the new and faded walls
with wrinkled yellow paper shedding slowly
off, like you and me,

the homes with lamps with orange lights in
them all sit,
homes of mice and ants, and rats and
dusty trucks and cars and boats and tin and cans,
homes of forks and spoons and hearts, broken, fresh
as any water in the rusted pipes can, and
envy too, as bright as blooming greens and grass,
and love and sand and snowy beaches vast,
for on the pebbles walk again the girls and boys
under moon and water and fire inside the clouds, where children
kissing are, barely sixteen,
think they found their souls,
just before the greatest rain of all, they're singing
in the gentle wind, they're standing there being cold

just to feel the warmth of
the darkness approach, so they're wrapped in blankets, smiles and frowns and feeling
nice inside, feeling warm,
young again beneath the skies
painted for them, in dreamy pastel brights,

but they are there, and here are we,
the forgotten ones, the unknown ones, the fallen ones, the unsung ones,
we dream,
in our dreams,
the rain caries us away,
it
caries us to the murky depths of river banks, so we may become
a rock
on which the new will build upon, and then we dream the better dream,
though we dare not say, we always know,

and
when we come across another one of us, by accident at
some certain place, some random time of day,
it’s that look, only just a glance,
that longs to dream
the best dream of all,
the one of no tomorrow