Clement

Only your footfalls dare
contact the road
on this night that belongs
to winter.
Perhaps, a lifetime ago,
in the earlier days of beauty,
you would say it was
pixie dust, proof of another reality.
But now,
white specks that give color
to the restless wind
are only that.

The sound of midnight
echoes in your ears,
the deafening sound of silence
that only satiates
those whirlwinds of thought, indecision.
The moon has taken her leave
and the dots of hope,
she takes with her.
You pray there is a safe haven
somewhere up ahead, sometime soon.

I am there,
very wordlessly walking beside you.
If you are very quiet,
you can hear
two sets of footsteps,
on the wintry road.
We will brave the blizzards
hand in hand.
Perhaps, somewhere up ahead,
and sometime soon,
this falling snow will once again
look like pixie dust to you.

For The Love of Dreaming

I feel as though a myriad of swells has surrounded me, entered me and drowned me. Is this what a sleepless night feels like? I think not. I have the feeling that it is what a restless night does to a person. For I got eons of sleep but zero seconds of rest. My mind, numbed by the night, the necessity for closed eyes but not solaced. Not at all.

I used to dream. Perhaps I still do but the subconscious experiences are quickly kicked out of the house. At any rate, I can't recall any of my dreams. Nightmares don't visit me either. I suppose one might claim that this sort of situation is desirable. To sleep free of nightmares is a common wish. Even if it is at the expense of good dreams. I disagree. I have the sense that dreams and nightmares no matter how glorious or monstrous, give life to sleep. Otherwise, I'll be nothing but a corpse, breathing but experiencing a disturbing, chilling oblivion.

I Hope You Know

I could scream a million insults
At the departing evening wind.
I could whisper desolate laments
To the soil the raindrops kiss.
I could recite a common verse
Of loss and love and heartache.
But for the first time in this lifetime,
In the hollow cave
That once housed a beating heart,
A single sentence reverberates
Over and over again.
This is all there is.
Just a poet finding herself
Dumbfounded once more,
Uttering the simple sentence:
There are no words for this.