I watched them sleep, and
at such times,
within the deeper indigo of night,
I felt the essence of earth
in a state akin to spirit-life,
as she silently sang all sleep into being
again - but this time not to dream -
for they dared not venture there,
beyond the rosy, clear-cut edges of their days,
even as I felt the spring begin to play itself
into a breath of clearly stated atmosphere.
The strangest claims were
for I noticed early on that in their days,
still they slept a waking sleep
that dulled their senses into apathy.
How was it that they couldn’t see
the beauty of another springtime dream . . .?
The rhythm of their breath
entice a mind into deception;
enchantingly serene within a dome
composed of their unknowingness,
that willfully demanded I give in
to sleep for years within a state of dreamlessness,
never touching on the greatness of each possibility,
but rather incubating there in endlessness
each time the indigo of night beheld itself.
Yet once upon a time
the magic played upon their senses,
and some part of them could not forget
the whispered messages it sent,
that even now break through the haze
of days of blind belief,
uttering an incandescence spent -
especially at the center of the maze.
And once upon a time came
just around the bend where daemons dwell,
and swell themselves in utterance of all reality.
For myths must have their say,
and every shadow once created
by the light of day must show itself
within these dreams that seed the source
of life into a course of greater meaning,
for the dreams of sleep become
the essence of this journey
in eternity of form . . .
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .