While the moon dozes, its
orbit around earth
forgotten, he peeks
into my dream, worms
his way in. His presence
holds me hostage in REM,
my eyelids fluttering.
He still needs to be needed,
you see.
He sweet-talks me, bades me
roll back the stone from
the tomb of old memories.
He speaks of green eyed
birds seen, drifting; our nights,
bare and sweaty, to the
slow rasp of Rod Stewart.
His breath becomes a song in
my ear, reminding me of what
used to be sweet and so
I open my arms, finally, to
say yes, to hold him, yes,
to bring it all back, but
he has already wandered away,
bored, to mess with some
other old lover's dream.
4 comments:
nice twist at the end, pris
and you worked rod stewart into a dream
that is something my wife would do - for me it would probably be tom waits
hi tom
thanks. i still feel as if i need to tweak the mid section a bit, but often can't 'see' a poem till it's up.
And I love Tom Waits, too.
PS I've tweaked/tightened the third stanza about six times now and think it's where I want it now. We'll see:-)
Hi Michael
I'm still doing minor word (not content) tweaks on stanza three...yes, again. I can't quite get the bit of jerk out of it.
And saw your other note. Yes, I do love Dido's music!
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