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Diego Morales Jun 2017
To Selene:
Rare a night, her gentle grace is not seen;
Live long torches, shamed, by her beauty’s gleam!
The Queen of night, my heart, she reigns supreme.
Floating high in deep, black lakes of my dreams,
Softly she gazes down past thick and thin;
Distant is her love as we skin to skin;
Fooled, my fervent stretch is never within,
Her affection for me, I’ll never win.
My heart, her misfortune can only reap
This last choice—wound us both more than my weep!
For her sympathy, my eternal sleep!
Now like me, may her woe forever keep.
By day miss her and dream of her by noon
Forever, rest in heart, my dear honey, moon
The sad love between Endymion and Selene
Sets the stage for this sonnet like poem's scene
she-was-sleeping Jul 2018
Silent is the night
              If you can see you can feel her breathing
    Fallen is the sky
              If you can feel you can see her shifting

                                                       ­   Luna, Luna...

 Frozen is my time
              If you can see you can feel her dreaming
    Touch by gentle moonlight
              If you can feel you can see her beaming

                                                          Luna,­ Luna...
Laura Slaathaug Jan 2017
Sometimes I think of long lace hemlines, following a trail of white petals

and tree branches arching to form a dome,

sunlight dappling the green leaves like stained glass in a cathedral

But that’s not what I dream of.

Instead, I dream of black nights that turn into dim mornings

where we crowd the couch

And you play your guitar while we sing, voices cracking

and when we look at each other with blood-shot eyes,

we can’t help but laugh.

I dream of rain slapping our skin when we run, arm in arm, for cover,

my jeans are soaked, I shake from the cold, but your hands are warm

I dream of alarms ringing in the apartment, smoke billowing from the pan,

Because I burned the eggs again, the steam and smell of soap and grease

when I scrub the pan and make toast instead–

and you insist you don’t care—

but I make up for it with coffee later.

I dream of long trips, arms out the window and arguing over who’s going to drive

or who gets the radio station this time

because I’m tired of your folksy rock and you really,

really don’t want to listen to Beyonce

but we both do it anyway.

If I dream of a white dress, it has stains from the coffee we shared.

If I dream of petals, they’ve been drenched by rain and torn and trampled by our dancing.

Don’t tell me what I dream of isn’t beautiful because it’s messy and flawed.

For a thing of joy is a thing of beauty forever.

— The End —