Thursday, January 24, 2013

Late-Night Soliloquy

Caught by the drowsy fervor
Of a late night soliloquy
I muttered
Strange utterances;
Half sang, half-cried
Prose softened with sleep,
Imbued with the quicksilver passion
Of dreams.
Inspiration brushed me,
A white song of the moon,
Myself, softly crying,
The song, softly dying,
I spoke of my dreams.
Caressed by the cool light
Of the moon,
Which is not blue, nor white, nor gray,
but some spectral shade
That dissipates at day,
I waited, and wept
For the words to come,
like breath…

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