I dreamt he called me the most beautiful.
It drifted through my open sill,
and landed softly upon my cheek.
Feathers from heavens danced
into my bed
where I was still, but imps played in twilight.
Cursed be the fool that brought me here,
into madness,
out of love.
I'll wait no longer for another to cleanse me,
and if one should try
they shall be naught but a dunce.
Perhaps it was the drought that brought upon this rain,
where I am the ground and he the God
that pulls winds my way.
I cannot say with certainty that my soul will rest this night.