My grandfather is dreamless like I

I have no clouds to ride on but nightmares of

terrible father figures

like fifteen year old bandits and pushers

biological like unto real but not really

my visions were foster cared instead of I

solemn surprise of reality when taxis leave and fathers leave only to never say goodbye

goodbye then

red brick walls waving

Swedish ghetto attributes in mazes of solitude

childhood grandfather hero

sleeps in soil of still reality now

with ancient forefathers that can’t help me

with no rune or prayer left

standing in the waiting room of fortune with empty clouds

pockets full of lies

I park the car on cliffs with no father figures left

Fjällräven backpack with notes from the block

pouring out the last dreams I can’t talk to

over the monument

watering the viking grave like God when he makes the clouds cry

goodbye then