In a day,
Even an hour as some would say,
Distant dreams become,
Swaying is what some would say,
Yet dreams always in motion they play,
Fictitious moments they pray,
Endless weavings of somber moaning,
Death is a tomb for some they say,
Yet the airing of the dead is dismay,
Lost in love,
Or rather, love lost is emptiness they say,
Dreary bemusing is what I say,
Silence for the dream another,
Death for the one so begotten by hate,
I say.
For the shifting of the tide some pray,
Yet none does shift or falter till the very ocean decides it,
No decision is made nor forgotten unless chosen to be so,
Dreary they say,
Darkness they say,
Love I say.
For one so lost is he,
Or me?
I do not know,
Questions arise,
And questions do fall,
By empty light and shallow grave one dismays,
Even the birds call out in their chirping,
Man in his cursing,
Woman in her nursing,
Boy in his yelling,
Girl in her dancing.
All do speak,
Yet none speak for others,
Intense hate is what some may say,
Intense love is what I say,
Intense anger is what they say.
None is one,
So one is not none,
Singular is the dream that is remembered,
Even the best dreams are forgotten,
Thus it is with love that is lost,
The fondest may arraign you in pleasure,
And the pain may arraign you in hate,
Yet remember it so,
That you still feel something,
Even if it is just like a dream.
Here a moment,
Then forgotten,
Never to be known save by you my dear soul.
