The DREAM DEALER

by Grace Hu

a man with stars in his hair
and incandescent eyes
shuffles past me in the winter,
pulling his boots up from the snow
as he offers me his wares

a penny for a promise,
a dime for a dream,
a quarter for a question,
a dollar for a scheme
two for some more,
pay three for four,
the secrets of the
meaning of this world
are yours

says he sells fantasies, every last one
of the broken paths and forgotten pledges,
dreams that died and
wishes that never came true
and he sells them by the bottle,
charging a little bit of lifeblood
for every dose, so we give
our years for better ones,
exchanging a breath to roll
the thousand-sided die so we may
land on our feet one day

​outstretched hands
fingers scraped raw, shaking
from the bitter winter and coarse wind,
i wait as he pours stars
into my palms that
burn my skin and leave
nothing but reddening blisters
to bloom like rhododendrons
against the white snow

laughs, says he screams ghosts
into our ears and calls them songs,
wraps them around
our feverish minds to remind us of
these winter days,
to entomb the frost creeping
into our bones,
to suffocate flesh in
seeping delirium so that we may
laugh as we lie with steel
in our necks and silver in our hands

phantoms
of our creation, wraiths of smoke
that surround us all our days.
we inhale the bitter scent of the
ambrosian dream of yesteryear
to see its gilded colours fade
when we close our eyes at last;
we carry it with us, even as our
fingers bleed and our skin cracks
and what is left of divine image
crumbles into carnal frenzy

says he sees himself in me, once with
chapped lips on a pale face,
yearning to shatter and swallow
another vial of fatal illusion so that
i may be magnificent again,
drunk on grandeur,
intoxicated with the sight of
unforged paths and
unfinished plans
and i ask him for a little more
because i wither as
the delusion of reality takes hold
and rips me from destiny.
my knees buckle and my eyes water
and i crawl towards the wooden cart
to beg for a little bit more,
just one more dose
although my pockets are as empty as my
pain-stricken mind

but he only laughs and ambles away,
leaving a trail of glass shards and
half-broken reveries in his wake
​
foolish one

they capture us by
drinking us dry,
they feed us, they reap us,
they bend us, they break us
they destroy us

when they sell us fantasies,
and we buy every single one of them
until we have nothing left.

---

Storytelling is a powerful force changing the world, and Grace Hu indulges in it through writing epic fantasy novels, poetry, playing piano, composing, or weaving narratives into her speeches and essays. For inspiration, she immerses herself in world history, linguistics, philosophy, politics, and current events. And, of course, video games.