Dreams of red words,
And of the beaks of dark birds,
These are my feeble ways,
Drawing the scent of life unto myself,
That I may ascend,
To reach the trailing white hand,
Inscribing fractals in the light of a boat's wake,
Above me like a new sun,
If I could but stir from where I lie,
Swathed in weeds and cloying silt,
As once my lover's midnight hair draped my chest.
I will rise, to grasp unheeded at that warm hand,
Though nothing of me reach the cool air above,
But the ghost of my touch. |