For dreams that breathe on gossamers of Time
The road not taken spells the name in stone
Forgotten maybe, hushed away by breeze
Of grimy dungeons in dusty grains of rot:
The lot is taken, absinth for the Soul in torn
Scrapbooks of stars we dare not see
And fix our eyes before proverbial feet
That pace but sideways like clowns in scruffy
Shoes, patchwork of Poesy’s neglect
Reflect,
For no known prize the beauty can recall
Of Joyce and Virgil kissing as men do,
With blessings whispered from Virginia Woolf
And Bronte’s shadowed lights that readers
See still living in the smiles and sighs
Of those who want, and real as rock and light
Do listen deep and hear the bright yet soft
Deepening voices of Memory’s three daughters
Singing now together: the dream’s at loss, not Gaia
When ‘t fails to come to life, for lack of guts
And intellectual fire.