Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Morpheus The Dream Weaver

in pain unbent,the spine shivers and collapses,
the body of man and the flower of the virgin soil,
and where does the mind fall if not the ground,
when the solid skull shatters beyond,
and rains of drifting memories and dreams,
where sleep is but a fortune for the restless stream,
and he waits by the closing eyes,
laughing softly as he walks to the moving sky,
heavens unearthed of past and present ruin,
the grapes sour of tasteless life,
and the dreams were the night of nights,
where sleep was but a memory in the turning pages.

oh maiden fair and fast asleep,
would you know how deep you sleep,
in the arms of Morpheus and the child of Pasithea,
for the night will never end the day,
and the light of this dream,
is hidden far from the way.
Morpheus,Morpheus,slay not her youth,
in violent past and futures unwritten nor spoken,
but lead her faraway where love may carry,
the heart of her and the spell of her beauty remembered,
like roses in winter,
the icy wind does splinter,
the chords and the strings that bind the memories of love,
and Morpheus,poor Morpheus,such a strange face to nature,
leaving no footprints or shadows,
but a body of nothingness,
where the dream weaver sleeps.

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