I was waiting- for that dream of tomorrow
where its morrow never seems -it should be.
It is always- so shrouded in sorrow.
Why would you -so do -this to me.

Love’s fondness –and all of its laughter
it‘s spectre of besoin -I despair.
What making –has it- of mind’s philtre
when, I’m so wrapped up - in its care.

Make me- a moment -where I may redress
those problems –we oft so endure.
To yet entreat what yearned- it seems no less
as a means and curse -of its cure.

I stroll there though shadows -of what it might seem.
Epiphanies tophet –writes ukase unseen.
For here on graves marker –of what might have been.
 I ne’er see a flower- from the one of my dream.

Mor.