The Thin Line

There is dust in the air, a haze
smelling like cordite,
the fireworks expended,
a mere memory now,
as the crowd crawls its way home,
perhaps to shoot off a firecracker or two of their own
before sleep claims them
and they are left to their dreams.

What will they be, you wonder,
dreams of love or madness?
Of falling or rising to a beautiful death?
Or an old time movie filled with the dead?
or a vague sense of passion, lost and found
pieces of yourself.

You do not know.
All you know is that you will dream.
It is inevitable,
a part of you too real to suppress,
so real that on waking you do not know the line
between real and imagined
and for a moment,
you live in neither.