Tarantula

A tarantula spinning his web
or a wizard his golden orb.
The gossamer of dreams dims
the light of day, nudges all
that is real a little further
away - out of reach.
You ask that I believe in what little
we have now - offer platters
full of imaginary food -"Taste"
you say. I share our Barmecidal
feasts with you each night
sleep tired, bewildered and
sometimes even happy. I wait
again for the wandwaver, the
teller of tales, the imaginer
of futures that can be. "Dream"
you say. I weave in and out of
our two step waltz, with an
invisible partner who drifts
between near and far.
"I miss you" and "I love you"
are two interwoven strands of
spun silk - glimmering, tender
and fragile. I fear it may snap
when the orb slows down,
when the web is woven,
when the light of day
to see dreams turn real
breaks through the mist.
I cannot live on hope alone I say,
give me something real -
you have words of comfort
but no warm touch,
whispered promises
but no covenants.
I am a junkie for hurt feelings
you pour in a deluge to fill my need.