I dreamt a dream of mazes, scrap metal folklore, turned out to be a sign of misery not luxury. Felt the heat scorch upon my arm as it brushed by my face, my neck welted red from the steam and grime rose from the ground in pungent purple-grey puffs of smoke. Everywhere was choking on nothingness. Even the sky had lost it’s tune, the birds had fallen long ago, their feathers were not renewed and their song buried under layers of debri. Utopia was a distant dream. One arm was tattooed with the sign of the dragon and time dragged-on in a misty hardly there type of way. What happens when rainbows leach their colours into the ground, like pictures on paper in the rain, they muddy with deprived soil and tear and redistribute themselves and their colours into the earth, perishable playthings, blueprints of daydreams from minds past their Springtimes. Cherishable still, are the empty bottles, which may fill with water if the rain is refreshing, but parched lips the water no longer passes, for there is no one left. On the edges, in the outer darkness, dwells the devourer of the devout. Beneath the sky of blue, the enabler builds glass castles too easily taken down. In the centre where refuge is sought, there is little comfort there. Seek a sign and sell it to yourself, but it mayn’t be a truth.