Such Sadness of my Morning Dream.
Let me dream, let me dream, that dream again,
you were meant in mind’s eye to see me.
Without, this mask o’ memory’s weighted pain,
Shaped by contumeliousness’ self-made cadre.
In truth, a hundred times, I’ve seen you go
in purposed steps ne’er set on pausing.
Oh! How I wish my thoughts could only show
when you pass me close by; each morning.
Would you so coruscate one small glance, my dear?
in your alacrity of day’s dawning.
What thoughts are yours, purlieus that seem so clear?
whilst mine are left with lonely yearning.
Who cares they now, of my snafu’s lone plight?
When, war returns its own, bleak brokenness of right.
Mor.
Twice this week, others and I had the same vibe about poetry. This morning, I found an ideal photo of the same name as my poem taken in 2012. And now this. I don't believe in supernatural things, but these connections I'm getting are quite unnerving.
Please stick around and let us smell your roses. You will make poets of us, yet.
Ron
I suppose if one is fortunate enough to dream, why waste it on mono- syllables.
Anyway you have just reminded me as to why I gave Authorsden a miss for a year, nothing much has changed it would appear.