The only Museum: responses

your dreams are only fluffy in the ground
with clay lips grumbling against the wind.
only half words bake a calf of gold
for the children with stories on hold.
So, for days when their hands travel
around the pixels of memory
be it in prayer in a room so cold
what shines is a fake fleck of rusting gold.
It hangs as a pinnacle that falls
that melts like a watery dream
filled with cold and pleasure
literally—making the bed uncomfortable.
The museum is in your heart as gods
it’s in your palms as legends,
it’s in your eyes as myths.
God told you this the whole time

Ruddapoet