The Dream

‘Twas midnight soon, and the writing fingers didn’t slumber,
Swiftly they moved, and five poems were authored,
Even the mooning poetess didn’t have an answer,
When you asked her how she did it, in apparent wonder.

Five poems, all dedicated to you,
Were written down, when you didn’t have a clue,
That the poetess still remembered every single sentence,
At midnight, she typed, in remorseful penitence.

When wriggling worm of idea, was off her,
When the creative phase was over,
She curled up to rest, tired.
But in her dreams, returned, wishful desire.

In world, anew, golden sands, shifting,
She found herself, by the ancient pyramind.
Sandstorm, her hair, forcibly whipping,
Calling your name, on rock, she tripped.

The sand, once again, was on her lash,
Particulate, but mighty, they buried her, punishing and harsh,
Even in quagmire, as she helplessly slipped,
To you she called, as her soul, the sand took.

Alive again, but in different a place,
She was about to meet Satan, once again,
Before your trembling hand,a book she did thrust,
Read it, she said, it’s full of my words.

Scaling an impossible mountain is she,
Inexperienced, scared, and weary,
On rock face she stands, stalling.
Your company, silently begging.

But it is only in dreams that she craves,
For you to look to her, to be her friend,
Won’t you forgive the poetess, ever again?
To prove your human, a broken heart, can’t you mend?


The song bird sang at 5:15 pm on the 13th of December, 2009.