nor what has passed my lips,
nor what words formed at my finger tips,
that shaped a denied fancy into idyll of an hour.
Leaving behind, in him, sleep,
and in my, a restless dream that calls for some soothing.
But that is another paradise from down above to look.
There is no peace, nor any justice,
only days that pass one by in another,
making so the meaning of a moment's passed.
I have stroked the air and carved arcs of fire across the horizon,
shaping figures into forms that dole out the petty pleasure
on seeing them there is such an ecstasy as only angels know.
Yet some how they will be, in some moment, gone.
And like me, a memory that is fainter than the trace of dew,
on that other morning to where our lives deny.
Have I waken? Not yet, oh please not yet.
Let me linger among these my edifices,
let me shape these words a few days more,
before they grow silent in my mind.
Let me sleep here, a little longer.
And then not to wake again, but my last memory be
a dream of which dreams are made.
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