Love is a dream
or so they say,
my winter heart,
it begs to play
“unfreeze me please”
you’ll hear it say
“for I miss the warmth of summer.”
And love is young
though I am old,
they say it can
unwind the cold
like ticking clocks
and bells of old;
echoes fading into silence.
And love is kind
but I am scared
of fangs beneath
the lips you bear.
The last one said
he also cared,
so I am slow to trusting.
‘Cause love is cruel,
and I’m not new;
affected words
and lover’s cues,
strangled trust
and selfhood, too,
I’ve the eulogies to prove it.
But love is birth;
it can give life.
If I could let
the dead horse lie,
and promise you
that I will try
to want to become different.
To love at all
is to have felt
your stolen heart
transcend yourself,
blessed by the hand
of God Himself,
the seeming giver of your dreams,
but to love again,
it is a choice,
to speak aloud
in broken voice,
“Though it may hurt,
still I rejoice,
though it may end,
still I rejoice,
take all I am,
still I rejoice,”
and try, though hard it seems,
to remember how to dream.
Remember how to dream.
