9/12/2014

consolation is a prize set upon golden sands that my feet are no longer invited to tread upon

solace is a faraway whisper that is only loud enough to be heard in my dreams,
and when i am woke,
all hope proceeds to dwindle,
and solace has gone forth to a new home,
and i am left to a melancholic hum which pierces my ears like the tip of a steak knife,
and i am left to sit
and dream,
but how doth the dreamer sing when all that is laid upon him is sorrow,
and how doth the dreamer pray when the exodus tears him apart from his mates,
and tell me how doth the dreamer love when all his life he hath known pain?

how does the dreamer live,
when he doth not see the light of the stars any longer,
when he doth not feel the warmth of the sun upon his nape,
when he doth not feel the wind outside his window?

the stars have gone dim,
the sun hath frozen outside of his dreams,
and the wind doth try to blow him away

away,
far away,
is that what the dreamer longs for?

what does the dreamer long for when life no longer fits his fancy?

i can say,
i* do not long for death,
but maybe i do,
for i am like this dreamer

i once longed for the stars to envelop me in their light,
and the sun to shield me with it's warmth,
and the wind to wrap it's breeze around me

but now i do not know what i long for

the dreamer hath decayed,
the life has begun to rot,
the moon has begun to fall out of the sky,
and i am afraid of what peril i,
the dreamer,
may face