I Dreamed A Dead Dream

I dreamed a dead dream.
They’re all dead, aren’t they?

Isn’t a dream a not-live thing
that seeks our attention,
that begs for our breath?
It needs these to spring,
as Athena did,
from the head of Zeus
(she arrived dressed for battle),
breathing, awake
and ready.
Or, even to come as Aphrodite,
floating gently on the foam of the sea.

My dead dream, devoid of color-
like the world in The Flood
became the gray and angry, hysterical sky.
Does it remember life
like a shade 
of the Underworld,
 unsure of itself ?
Or does it see the world,
perfect, and simply waits
with the pain,
waiting for whatever it needs
to make its own fascinating entrance?

Is my dead dream closer
every time it is dreamed-
closer, closer
no matter who dreams it?
Less lifeless, somehow
in being seen by me,
by you,
especially by you.
Do you remember that your
dream is dead-
that it needs you to live?

Or do you forget,
rubbing your sleepy eyes?

~D Gregory Smith