A fragment
Please, My Child, don’t let these dreams waken you,
For they cannot but pierce the skin,
Their teeth stare at you through a rose-petaled entrance,
Clawing at the dew of the morning.
And yet, I see, with eyes not focused,
For there once was supposed to be some promise,
That I was told of,
It was murmured and rang over and over in me.
Of tales that spoke of the beauty of the unknown,
And I just abhor that my left foot will never light that reach,
Because I have iron sinking down from my heart,
Playing God upon my own conscience.
The complex reign of thoughts upon my former person,
Clouds my vision as if I was like the owl,
Deemed to sing his song in darkness,
Where only worms and the cold earth will hear.
Dear sir, I know not of what you speak,
The light that explodes upon flowers,
Was always in your own creation of your hands,
They strangle the marrow within your own grasp.
It was never stated in books how I yearn,
For the lies that so graciously coddled me in sleep,
Their gangly disease-ridden fingertips pat my feverish head,
And I fall asleep in utter peace.
Able to rise with a chipper view of the universe,
Knowing that at least in the dreams that hold me captive,
I will always be the one who can be loved by my own invention,
And walk that road through jasmine petals and vanilla skies.
