This is the poem. I initially planned on making this dream into a short story but when we were given the assignment to right a poem based on a dream, it clicked that this was the dream meant for that assignment.
Bones to Flesh
Pale flames of a meager fire,
fluid bone reaching, straining, suspended
over ash sculpture sticks. The Outsider
sprawling beside it, watching the weaving
of a camp through liquid light, eyes of midnight storms.
A child of silver moonlight curled in the crook
of a stone lap on a cushion of fog and grass.
The blazing expulsions of wooden demon mouths
glinting off hair of spider silk platinum.
She brushes the silk from eyes of starlit night
and watches stick bones and bleached skin
sprawling by pale flames over ghosts of wood.
The tapestry of a wandering home, musical strands
of color and scent. The cooks, the cleaners, the hunters,
the horses, the wagons. The girl child. The Outsider,
a blemish, pale and unraveled in the edge
of the weaving. The girl the delicate embellished
embroidery, white gold weave of the center,
cherished child of tapestry threads.
It's time, his whispered words tiny bells jingling
as the porridge goes cold and the people grow still,
darkness hovering in breaths of dream. Skeletal hands
clasping my waste(her waste). Riding a skinny
horse albino, too sickly to hold whole men.
I lean(she leans) against washboard ribs.
I'm a crow in the black sky cawing alert!
The tapestry wakens to give chase!
Outsider, child, horse, riding in a tunnel
of trees, warped and rounded,
circling, bulging, wrapping
around the only path of the maze of time.
The tapestry fades. Reality bends; bones become flesh,
full, vibrant, alive. I'm an eagle in starlight flying
above a chestnut horse with riders. We're home,
he says, no longer the outsider. I know,
she responds, I missed you Dad.