Dream

January 5, 2005

Morning twilight
graces my pillow,
courts my weary eyes,
reluctant to release
their failing fancies.
Hesitation proves futile,
as ever it has:
For who can hold her
when Dream perceives
her time has come,
eluding grasp as reason
waxes in the morning sun?
Ever she wanes with dawn,
ghostly and beautiful,
donning wispy,
blue-grey garments,
her visage grieved
as story dies once more
before its end.