Tepid air, still in gray twilight, not how I imagined.
A thousand dreams gone by,
None of them like this,
Yet all of them are.
A grainy film,
Drawn through a blind man's
Window. Taking asylum
In the Narthax of the church.
Miss September with child.
Madonna in the beauty of roses while you lie sleeping,
As her Son gathers mystery
In the dreams of children
Seeking pearls of wisdom
Falling to the floor.
Does it make a sound,
Dredging the dregs of life
Along like a possession
Drug from place to place.
Intrepid loner, looking out
For the loser charging his heels close behind.
Sure as a spark takes to the wind in a dry field
On the edge of waking,
As the light pale in the meadow, And Angels
Lie sleeping in the dust.