Field Of Dreams, Tomorrow’s Not There

Once upon a time there was a man who lived in a field of dreams. He would lie on his back, days on end and watch the clouds of a coming tomorrow drift slowly by.

Sometimes in shapes of angels and other times they resembled future demons of a knowing coming horror. The essence of a perfumed day filled the morning air, but the demons of his future dreams brought the smell of death, which now filled the evening fair.

Sometimes he would hide his face and shield his eyes from the things that he knew would one day soon come to be. Yet he couldn’t rid himself of the smell of death that overcame his field of dreams.

For even as a young lad he could see things yet to come. This bore heavy on his heart for he as a seer knew that fate had its role and never, by no power or might could anything be done.

Soon his field turned a dirty brown. Birds that once sang fell dead to the ground. He could hear the screams of children yet born, who were lost before they were found.

For man hath brought upon himself this coming dire day. Fields once green were now deserts and even those who once feared God forgot how to pray.

J. Allen Wilson © 10/23/2014