I am awake, at this ungodly hour.
Fragments of a dream forgotten,
fall through my clutching fingers,
like sand on a windy day.
I scrabble frantically at myself,
the dream was important, it
was! But to naught. For in doing so
I but stirred the wind to greater speeds,
and swept the sand away. I fall back,
head cushioned by folds in a wrinkled
blanket, and a pillow wet with tears.
I stare at the slowly spinning fan, air blowing
like a soft spring breeze, to still my racing
frantic heart, and dry unnoticed tears.
I stare at the spinning fan, unseeing, uncaring
of the gently comforting breeze. I know in my heart,
my secret sanctum, my quiet place, alone, that 'twas
no happy comedy, no carefree summer dance. A tragedy,
close at hand, is what had come this night. As I fall,
gently, down into the realms of sleep, I remember, a last fragment,
spinning aimlessly on the cusp of that void, forget. Flashing it
fell, but I caught a sight, a fleeting glimpse, of the tragedy held within.
Ashes floating, still lake beneath, and the muted, trembling sound,
of the womens stifled weeping. And the stars were all alight, shining coldly,
down from the black expanse, and a winter wind was blowing.
I was awake most of the night before, and so I apologize if this poem meets not with your satisfaction, and acceptance.
