Dreams

I would never have the same dreams as you.
Our inner unsorted turmoil is from different places.
Your jumble sale is still at the newly opened, stacked in tidy piles stage.
My jumble sale has been open quite a while, been well rifled through and mostly in rags on the floor.
But it's okay. We knew it would never be a competition.

I first dreamt that I was flying high in the air.
Not soaring upwards like one of your sugar sweet angels though.
No. It was as if I was expelled from a great stinking arse, with one gigantic Whoosh! Which made my ears pop.

And propelled, at great speed like a rocket, into a grey sky.
I seemed to be dressed in a shift of oyster silk. 
Which, looking back, seemed really elegant, but in the real world seemed to have been made for another.