Old Dreams

Old Dreams

He returned in daylight hours
after the dream -
a reminder of the night
searching red clay caves
safe from hostile skies.
He came back,
and I returned awake
to where he stood watching,
propped against a wall
of foreign architecture.
He spoke with an accent,
but never in a dream.
I looked back for him,
as though reality could enter.
His image could only remind me
of something familiar.
He became a Picasso
An Old Guitarist,
now sitting to play
where his voice left off.
where red changed to blue
where life and death split
during the night.
I will paint again
when I can claim confidence,
and we will serenade together
the red clay songs
with a blue guitar.