Le Rêve

Hyacinth garden

In a dream of another, the poet’s propensity was only desire.

You lied with persistence in half moon recollections that diminished all the sky.

I was careful of your heart not of my own what then would transpire.

Would I need Picasso to paint teardrops from my eye?

Like the Pretender, no trace of me found in any record of any kind.

And, if I existed at all, my poetry disguises the gravity of words.

Tougher than anything an empty space surrounds my thin language resigned.

Never from this day forward, will my passion be in flight with birds.

Ghosts are my hearts scattered seed sewn for your reaping.

Spirit unravels forever, years in this heart, kept secrets separate for their own safekeeping.

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