Of such things
Our dreams are made.
Would it not be
A storm is brewing.
There is no wind, no rain, no lightning bright,
But an undercurrent of rage and despair.
I feel it in the floorboards,
Sense it in the stale air.
It is an oppressive force, self-perpetuating.
Musing over my coffee mug has never felt so grim.
Maybe it’s just me,
Maybe the good is just hidden,
But I wish to remain in my warm seat
And never leave it’s comforting arms.
Yes, I’m looking out on a storm.
Soft sweeps to the skin
Feathered is her silken touch
I called her nightwings
I feel soluble,
The answer to myself,
I bubble and hiss,
Or is it the world that dissolves,
Whilst I remain stationary?
Sitting at the universe’s centre,
I watch eternity flittering away,
Or I apart from it: thinking.
I am soluble, in flux,
But wish to be whole.
Dancers each take a shy bow
Somewhere over heart’s despair
A husband lost to ocean’s rage.
She walks their dog, as always has,
Hoping for his soul to see.
I spy her on occasion, when the air is tight,
When sky and earth breathe as one
And mists of faerie cross the breach.
She hunts for him in that nowhere place,
That world that slips from beneath reality’s covers.
I can’t see her face, nor that of her little dog,
But it is them, it has to be.
One day, when the moon is still high enough to guide me,
I’ll approach her, offer my aid.
But on that day, I fear it will not be mine to give.
So until my own fogs kiss the morning dew,
Until I can slip from fact to fiction in effortless grace,
I’ll watch from the wayside and wave.