Dream

Trailing behind a seamless course, suddenly a dream lost its way. It flung itself far and wide.

And as the eyes close, it moves a little farther away, pressing into the darkness it transcends from slumber to grey. It twirls within and echoes outside. Slowly it moves from grey to a block-white to a block-black.

And as the direction of the beholder changes, the dream - it moves away, at times too far away. Sometimes like a recluse it seems distant.

On a day with no sun and no breeze, it might just die. With no flow and no bearing. And then the meaning of loss will not matter. For the formless-ness will take over. With no where to go and nothing to lose.