Daydreams

My daydreams
had thorns on them,
and fade to the color of
boiling smoke.

Surrounded by the heavy blue scent
of my imagination,
I lose touch with reality,
become intoxicated.

Drunk with nostalgia,
I stammer to the open door,
ajar, and breathing with fresh air
from the outdoors.

I burst outside,
only to crash into a pile of dead leaves,
the colors of rust and butter.  Again,
I am thrust into another childhood memory,
this one happier and healthier.

I cannot escape my memory,
and as this thought warms my face,
against the brisk October wind,
I fall into a deep, chaotic spasm of laughter.