I awoke in darkness beneath the moon
Where the light was dim, but for a slender ray
That fell upon my face, and none other.
Orchards of dreams were disguised
As beggars crooning a song of desolation,
And the profligate morning birds
Were still asleep, resting their dainty warbles.
It was a state of confusion.
The sanguine face that flits within
Was nowhere to be found,
And the gleams of joy were only threads
That broke with my abrupt arousal.
What face was it I glanced? What hands
Were soft with love, swaying gently in mine own?
There were no answers;
The laconic dawn held her tongue.
My bed was suddenly a shiver
Of naked aluminum, and to stay warm
I covered myself in moss like a castle’s façade.
Inside, I slouched on my throne of uncertainty,
As despair overtook me like a coup d’état.
To stay alive I swallowed the medicated mist
And fell asleep before the curtain of the sky
Could open on a violent, hypothermic world.
When again I awoke the sun was a bohemian
Orb of orange fire, her rays stretched like arms
To wrap me up in their uncouth embrace.
No longer sleepy I rose, and reflected on the eye
That had deceived me. Towards the window I glided,
Where among the wintry trees, the streaked clouds,
I noted hyperventilating tanks in retreat,
Leaving a trail of blood as mortality advanced
With mortars, grenades, and gay bugles;
And in the distance, at the perpetual point just before
The horizon vanishes, I saw
A lone, agèd figure conducting a silent orchestra:
O, whose face is that?
And does He or She or It too only love me in the night?
Originally written Friday, November 08, 2002 9:59 AM
Updated and edited Sunday, April 15, 2018