Two Dreamers

 

 

 

I remember how you used to talk to me,

glimmers of silvers and greens,

as you tossed your slender arms.

I could see you from my window,

glowing in the moonlight,

when I couldn't sleep.

You would whisper,

"I'm awake, too."

and we would wonder at the moon together,

until I fell asleep.

 

When no one was watching,

I would slip through the lacy curtain you

held to the earth,

and we would dream of another world.

I would sit in the special place you had made for me,

talking to you,

as clouds pointed and shook disapprovingly.

We rode a storm together once,

our hair flying rampant in the wind,

the raven sky clawing and flapping its wings,

and croaking, "You don't belong here," with a hiss.

 

I was lonely, as were you,

in a world of realities,

where no one understood our dreams.

They didn't know what they had done,

when they killed you and threw your body away,

leaving your stump to fade away in lace.

All I have of you now is that stump,

gathering silver parasites,

to stand on when I'm lonely and gazing at

the heavens,

when no one understands.

 

 

 

 

 

Fall, ©1982

The Old Red Kimono, Floyd Junior College

 

 

Amy Jackson

 

poetry

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