Winter tear drops leave upon the white flickers in the sea,
Where I’ve looked to the red droplets that were dark as geraniums,
Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone,
Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream
That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set,
Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again,
That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn
Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland
Which gave me the scent of these silent tears that blemish my hands,
And in the dark, I passed beyond the trembled gardens,
That went to the dissent of the darkening preamble of din
That struck the midnight. Who was I?
A stunned wick of cold, and a sense of mourning for myself.
I become forgetful as the decaying waters brought
The weeps of this day with a sheaf of wind, with a sorrowful plea
As the shore is a dream-lit diadem that makes me restless as a leaf.
Where are the hyacinths? I should not remember them.
Where are the sunken winter roses? And my strife is in the touch or blemish of a red myrtle
That lingers between a faint song of wind that will make me remember,
As the lightened touch from the ghost of a darkened autumn; I pleaded,
And I knew that in my heart, I would stand in the river still in the dreams
That darkens the wick and leaf—and I pleaded as my tears fell, alone, and I pleaded,
“Why, did they sing in moonlit lands! And I could breathe against the lone hills,
Where I should be heartened by the wind, and let it close my tears that were glistened
As the temporal winter can heal my soul on this trodden Earth of this day,
As the winter sea can make me float upon the vale of an eidolon dream
That recites the cold minted charcoal that warmed my skin, blest from a frail wind.”

Where was the tree of juvescence? Had it brought me a wasteland of drought,
That strains the limbs of the dead tree that bleeds and swims of leaves
That clutch upon the brow with a slick of the chill and it glints in its breath
Of a cried, lost tear that rolled down again.
Where are the raw silver seas that carry stems from myrtles or lilacs?
Where are the streams of my tears that washed on withered grounds
That from before the present, it cannot be the dream in a vernal tide?
Where are the hyacinths? I should not remember them.
Where are the sunken winter roses? And my strife is in the touch or blemish of a red myrtle
That should make me never remember. Wraith to the faint tear, I am saddened on this night,
As the blest leaf in a pale winter plateau.

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One response to “Mid-Dream.”

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