There are some girls
About whom I can no longer dream
My ascetic advocate
Spears those fancies
Halfway through the reel
Lays them on the night-grass
Under whatever proffered moon
And while I watch the mist rise
The age of morning perforates my hope
Prophesied by circling carrion birds
Dawn's reflection on feathers black
Come to feast on the impaled dream
Which is no longer mine.
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2 comments:
Move over Lord Byron.
Me likes. :-D
Thank you, Marilyn. I wrote this one night after waking from a dream at three of the clock.
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