The rain sleeps on
In the terraces of our oblivion.
Cradled by the half-moon
Sailing past the midnight skies,
Rustled by the leaves of memory,
As you sleep on -
As I look at you, in slumber,
Your feet rapping in every beat,
The prelude to an end.
Your call -
Echoed through the tresses
Of a dark night's ballad,
True to its meter,
Prays for an eternity of deja vu.
Savoured by the briefest of memories,
Alive to the calls of a world
Rendered infinite by the trappings of vanity.
The mirror wherein I see myself,
Is someone I'm not.
Is it you
Sailing the high seas past windy nights?
You've been there - in history,
In the recesses of chronology
As I stand divided in the Forest of Choice,
Waiting for you to deliver
The soul that ever was
Secured in translation.
2 comments:
hey, this is history :)
Eden can never be history ... at least not for me. If it is the date of composition you're talking about, I thought this is something I had to post ...
Post a Comment