Like water flows my dreams are caught,
between your sky and soil,
but on a sunbeam lost for wings:
as chrysalises turn to silt.
When my translucent gold is gone,
as butterflies and moths —
when hands without a sorcerer’s wand
still shivers — cold as moss.
I linger, waiting by the sea,
my mouth is stiff with salt.
Above the gulls admit my sins,
and promise end of wait.
Untethered yet again by night
in silvered light, my hands
can find the scattered sequins: lost
repainting hues of ends.
Sometimes my poetry is more ambiguous than I expect, there are some ideas in this poem, but there are others that just appears as I read it myself. This is my contribution to the Open Link at dVerse, where I am hosting. Welcome, the bar opens at 3 PM EST.
August 20, 2015