Dreams That Died Before Growing Old Poem by Patti Masterman

In misty churches of my dreams
I reunite with dead family members;
A storm is coming, do they mean
To stay together: nothing's as it seems.

In dreams are things that might make sense
And other things that are there by chance,
But who can sort the living and dead;
A dream is like a hypnotic trance.

I awaken, and the past rears up,
I see where the dry rot's taken hold-
Emotions that were never processed-
And dreams that died, before growing old.