My love was nothing
But a dream of dreams
That flowed through your hair
Under bright blue skies,
That warmed your face,
And in your eyes,
I could count an infinite list
Of our loves souvenirs
Our future and past reeked of our sweat
Now a cool mourning mist
on old wrinkled hands
Our carpets crushed in defeat
Paths worn through threads
Of our imaginary lands.
Our ceiling of love bowed to our life
heavy with moonbeams
and our child’s cries.
our finest china sang with delight
While our kitchen quaked,
with sudden desire.
The garments of our home,
were miraculous threads,
Stained with our song and light,
And while we embraced in sleep,
my love did lie awake, yet dreaming.
my love for you,
was a living thing.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
My love was nothing
But a dream of dreams
That flowed through your hair
Under bright blue skies,
That warmed your face,
And in your eyes,
I could count an infinite list
Of our loves souvenirs
Our future and past reeked of our sweat
Now a cool mourning mist
on old wrinkled hands
Our carpets crushed in defeat
Paths worn through threads
Of our imaginary lands.
Our ceiling of love bowed to our life
heavy with moonbeams
and our child’s cries.
our finest china sang with delight
While our kitchen quaked,
with sudden desire.
The garments of our home,
were miraculous threads,
Stained with our song and light,
And while we embraced in sleep,
my love did lie awake, yet dreaming.
my love for you,
was a living thing.
