In dreams of false night, as old fancies creep old floors,
a spirit stirs in light skies above; and in muted whimsical echoes
we all sound like we feel once more.
Once more, indeed, while the shrill winds sing encores,
though to the dreaming mind gales are voices hollow -
in dreams of false night. As old fancies creep old floors
new dreams fly, hoping they set ground in some distant shore;
though those dreams be glad nonsensical as the happy crows
we all sound like. We feel, once more,
and we think – once more – of sights we abhor adore
as we write and read again, with verses long shallowed,
in dreams (of?) false. Night – as old fancies creep old floors –
is dark caressing; shades shelter us, and truths so sure
melt as visions glide and trances write prose.
We – all – sound like we feel. Once more
will souls fly and cry their dying curse, as aged thoughts grow sore,
and will we wrap ourselves in dusk’s black shrouds and flows;
in dreams of night, as old fancies creep old floors,
we all sound like we feel – once more.
gizgiz
lightninghell
