The Dreaming

These haunting mornings are slept away -
Forestall the grayness of a winter day.
My eyes peer dimly lit diurnal pastures
Thick blankets of convoluted clouds
The down of my depression
Heavy feathers of feigned hope.

So does it come to a surprise
With supine repose
I dare devise
To withdraw these
Swollen, slumber eyes
Into the innumerable
Insurmountable
Impossible impressions
Of you or someone like you?

I dive deep into the
Confluence of contours,
Torrent currents of sequential
Possibilities running down
A cool subconscious stream.
Gilded water phosphorescent
A glistening milieu
Dances chances of
Resurrected adolescence
In a fluid
Lucid dream.

Sailing on a windless calm
my heart reveres a siren's song
Don Juan for warns
A sorceress torn
From nominal reality,
To landscapes that wax vignette
An old rose thrown off a balcony
Withered vestiges at last bereft.

Essentially I am tired.
Tired and frail
Moving all these years in flight.
Like a bird without a branch to land,
Over the waves circling
Senseless for a salty meal.
Like an artist without a muse,
Breaking sticks of lead.
Or a thief without a ruse
Careless fingers stained in red.
Like a freed slave blind and blundered
In an endless maze of fields -
Aimless I appeal.

My imagination has betrayed me
And I’d rather stay in bed.