In my dream I had a book of patches.
for the million wounds the world inflicts.
each set forth for a different purpose.
on my tattered jeans.
and I carried an air of indifference.
for the troubles at my door.
and no one could shove me from my pedestal,
this high-podium of self-indulgence.
but I find myself awake.
as usual, not with new consciousness.
but the lingereing suspicion that I have been slighted.
forced to open my eyes.
to a glaring and hostile world.
where dreams lie.