A Forgetful Dream, a Memory.

The dripping willows through the fragility of the dream
Makes the numb candles point to a dead fortnight
Surrendered to the blinding rivers that I would soon forget
In this winter dream; where no leaf crosses the river,
Where no dream is upon the weak bough above the sea,
Which instills the wraith of the buried twig, which says
That it had left through the branch or stream
And gone as the winter day, a forgetful dream,
That stands or parts from a shadowed darkness,
This faint, weak call to the deaf winds,
(I cannot hear my dreams),

And this red leaf, this red leaf snatches the twig,
And it will leave to the open branches to the ground
It will leave, it will leave,
Why must it go? The river of lone must pass,
And it shivered from the frail dream,
It will pass—and I say as it goes,
Why not be slippery and then you must wear the leafless wind
Upon the crystal nape on the lilac shore—and it must wilt,
It must be gone to the dead trees where I should not remember,
And I’d twist the wind in my hand, and look up at the old moss,
When will it fall? It is ghastly. It will hang on there like an immersed dream,

And it will cower onto the leaves and it will drip as the blood
Upon a tear that will be from the offshoot with no leaves;
Why must it leave? Bring the tears to the ocean dream,
And it will bring the wind that beats against summer,
When will it leave upon the echoing breeze of moon-lit streams,
Upon the old blood of day that will be a forgetful river.
And it will starve through the wind, that makes the wasteland a death to the slept river across the axletree.

When will it fall? It will hang on there like a cricket beats upon a frail moan of wind that will make you deaf from a darkened dream,
And it will be immersed in an ocean sea, begged by the simplest gleam of wax from a candle to drown, and be dimmed
To the lightest brush of the shore that reaches the juvescence among the tree.

The shadowing seas are among the morning,
That touch upon the lonely twig,
There’s the frail willow that stirs the stream, lightly,
When it passes by through a touch of darkened tears, my cries,
For I have never known, for I have never known,
And what could it be? As the pale leaf lightly floats upon
The weaved heiress of this tree, an old moss tree,
That breathed through the embouchure of this drowned wind,
Which thus is below the dream among the red rivers,
In the darkened tree of juvescence.

© 2019 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

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