it has all been a dreme.
Tender fingers of sun warm the floor,
touch with abandoned fire the deep forgetfulness of
drowsy, deep-autumn scent of tea,
roses, sweetly diamonded with dew....
books belovedly musty with time and use,
ink, sharp-bitter upon the quill.....
how will i ever manage.
how will i manage to get there,
this great weight
And I wake again,
in truth this time,
and it is no dreme,
I feel the circle of It
pressing my flesh,
like a knife,
like my own heart,
the rhythm of It
running alongside mine,
If I could but keep It from touching me.....
My fingers seek It out....
And find nothing.
No prisoner's chain about my neck,
the weight only a shadow'd thing,
a ghost of remembered pain and desire.
the desire is more than the pain,
darting careless and frantic,
only to find more
pain and black night
and more dremes,
dremes of Ages I could never have known,
dremes leached of light and sound
dremes of death and desire.
Still (and stilled) in darkness,
I am aware of myself once more.
My throat burns and tastes of copper,
the hand that wishes to claim It
(that wishes to throw it away)
lies senseless and bloodied beneath me.
I have told them nothing.
(my fingers, fallen upon the uneven filth of the
floor, find also there my clothing, warm-wet-cold
and smelling of bile and blood)
I have told them
And I do not remember
with their sharp knives
and foul teeth,
they have told me.
And I sleep,
and dreme of the Western lands, beneath the Sun.
And there is singing in my dreme.
my journey's end.