Mind a-breach a fickle thought,
Imaginative sensations with which we are taught,
Some stubborn - others keenly amended,
In which they sit with silence offended,
And those of satire that drift a-shore,
With some to laugh and others to bore,

Our mindful speckle of whim to shun with a tone so blue,
The righteous others that speak anew -

Thoughts to ponder with wicked eye,
Which crawl with shudders and tempted sigh;
To confide in the horrors that are to bequeath,
Afraid to seek what lay beneath -

With bones of many underneath this mind,
Memoric reminiscing of what more to find?

And might it be of happiest resonance,
Or a renaissance of benign dissonance?
Perhaps a slip of hapless covet,
With shame to embrace as mind had wove it -

Sturdy with thoughts to embarrass the moment,
And eyes to protest that very component.

Yet nonetheless the shame, the applaud, the grief or the sorrow,
Nothing says it better than "I'll see it again tomorrow,"

And only today are we to deny,
The thoughts, we think, are a dead-found lie.

Aloft a bay and swift to wonder,
With thoughts to swirl a mind in which refute its sunder;
As sentiments of contemplation adjoin their trail,
Sanctions of mind with no clear avail -
In which taunt a certain truth,
Ample with results ensured by fail;
For truth-value was not of concern,
As living these dreams were impossible to discern -
With a relative validity they sat behind,
Distorted of image and left undefined.

Truth is, one might ever know,
Perhaps it is attachment or a wilting care;
Perhaps it is an unrequited or envisioned affair;
Perhaps the past person in which offer solace;
Or perhaps a valueless teem of needless embolus -
To convey to mind that it is but nothing,
Nothing alas, no more than something.

And yet i sit, dreaming dreams of the past.
Dreaming of you, standing here steadfast.
These thoughts to ponder as they float along,
Conjure themselves together and play an endless song;
Which teethe and breathe with heartfelt rhythm.
It gripes at my mind, and yet i still go with 'em.
In eerie desire of a defined remedy;
That goes without saying an undefined extremity.

So last I speak,
From thought to thought,
As this sheltered mind is to leak.
Hereby night's gleaning ember -
Heart beating with thoughts as far as I remember,
Our peak in history at status of friend,
Mutuality clear, no ties to amend.


Nothing more and nothing less.

So why is it I dream of you?
I must profess.
Yes it is true, yes indeed I do.
Explicit visions of something more -
Something that we've never even considered to open a door.
And here at it I confess,
That of attraction in an altered fictitious state of mind;
Yet here I am,
Continuing to look behind,
Here in this reality, with my eyes distinctly open,
Reliving these dreams dreamt in the past,
With deeper connections -
Connections that realistically never sought chance to last.

They never even existed with such say,
So why in my sleep
I
See
You
This
Way?

A teary eye grudged into face,
That lingered with sadness and began to race,
As solid droplets skewered down his skin,
To shame his faith and brew with sin.

For it not of fitting character to him,
When his status fell short with such aching limb,
Forced upon midnight's distant lullaby,
That shook with fear and thought to mollify,

An apology that voiced its trial,
Swept with the gloom of alleged denial -
So that he turn't to the face of a well known God
In memoric outcry of the vast esplanade,

To which he'd revisited the softest of memory,
That faded with time, and to her, now shimmery.
So, he'd faced upon a distant life,
That pitted his stomach and sickened with strife,

Before the glisten of his dawning tear,
Stapled forth with its reigning leer,
Admittance of vows that traced with guilt,
The foundation of which his mind was built,

A mock of betrayal to that of dignity,
Of a loss so steep that it shed malignity,
And forced a plea of archaic misdeed,
That bred a demand of desperate accede,

For one more moment, the last of chance,
To partake upon a memory of beloved dance,
So that maybe he steal upon her heart once more,
Or toil to delirium as static of love fleet out his door.