#17
dreams
a flower is an open book
melting with imagination
into raspberry puddles that
you lick off your lips
dreams are grown in gardens
each tale of fire and haze
cultivated with the care
given by the patience of immortals
who have graced your sleeping eyes
with angels and their messages
you'll never remember fully
and the morning's light turns faded
what rose you picked in the night
the scent rolling like dew
and splashing at your feet and
your lover came home finally
but you never remember it