Pipe Dream

orange petaled flower
Photo by Evie Shaffer on Pexels.com

 

The air weans in partings of a summer breeze

But nay if it hasn’t swept in a lovelorn fear, or some,

At which I gaze in disconcerted ease.

*

It’s cold here. It’s cold here. I keel, then I’m numb;

That only you’d lie your love onto me — that I’d fain

In a frenzied season’s past, a past my pain is from.

*

One flitting thought, a thousand strolls purged in vain;

‘Tis the consequence of your haunting face,

So sweet my perfume smells like pain.

*

What now? No fear, no sense, no rush, no pace,

My game carried on in unlimited breadth;

I can’t wait forever, but I can’t win time’s race.

*

And so, my eyes faded in recurring death,

I pass you my final requiem on the fog of my breath…