Sunday, November 29, 2009

My Morning Dream

Poetry to Prose IV

He's a beautiful dream unable to withstand the morning sunlight, a whisper in the breaking dawn, and I wonder if he's real. He shines lonely over the divergent paths I'm traveling now, the gravelly crunch beneath my feet. There's no broken glass here. A beautiful sadness emanates radiantly through his ice blue eyes, deceptively clear but walled behind. I wonder what he feels. His image retreats into an abyss of softly faded dreams I've had, dreams no longer able to be recalled, just a wavering thought. He'd dive headfirst into an empty concrete pool and land softly there; I'd just drown happily in his eyes. I wonder why that is? He's all white marble and copper waves flowing through my fingertips, and I know I'll never be able to hold my morning dream.


  1. Just a general comment on your P2P efforts: less simple sentences.

    That stated, they are (so far) working better as prose.