Mornings fill me with precise dreams
Of romance morphing into love.
Everyday I hear the same song
Modified by different keys.
Dreams rehearse what minds require
Wearing out the path to loves needs.
Doors are opened and then slammed shut!
And tears a token of mistrust.
Salty cheeks, brush aside what could
Be; dreams that are reality
And not dramatic exercise.
Progress moves along the circle
To end where it always began—
With unfulfilled mourning, for dreams.
© 2008 Sara Coslett