the dream is born from glitter and gold.
her hair is cotton, her mouth is bold.
she rises, like dust from an old bookshelf
to keep the whole world from falling apart.

the dream is warm ocean. the dream is sky.
the dream is sage and lavender
under a blue-tethered sigh.
the dream is leather and ivory.
and brass knuckles when it matters most.

the dream is loving marginalized-children to sleep
and loving hard hearts till they are soft.
the dream is harboring cultures of amethyst
belted along her waist and shoulders.
the dream is passing in and out of reality.
in and out. you have to look closely to see her, now.

the dream is at stake. her head is bare.
she is splintering at the bone.
her wings, yanked spared. her eyes, a sudden clasping.
her throat, stifled. her body, an outright cataclysm.

the dream is reaching. her hands are small.
she keeps her head up, but the world stands tall.
we are taught to abandon dreams in childhood.

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