Agent provocateur
When in my dreams you bend to kiss my cheek
I am deceived to think that all is right.
On waking, though, I find another week
Has passed with you still distant, out of sight.
We meet and talk of many things, but don't
Yet dare confess the ones our instincts yell
The loudest, which, if common sense were wont
To turn a blind eye, we would quaff full well.
A second hand in hand, your touch inspires
Primaeval sonnets, songs of heart's distress,
All forms of poetry, all life's desires,
Which linger far beyond the brief caress.
But fool am I to ramble in this way.
The dreams of nights do not translate to day.
When in my dreams you bend to kiss my cheek
I am deceived to think that all is right.
On waking, though, I find another week
Has passed with you still distant, out of sight.
We meet and talk of many things, but don't
Yet dare confess the ones our instincts yell
The loudest, which, if common sense were wont
To turn a blind eye, we would quaff full well.
A second hand in hand, your touch inspires
Primaeval sonnets, songs of heart's distress,
All forms of poetry, all life's desires,
Which linger far beyond the brief caress.
But fool am I to ramble in this way.
The dreams of nights do not translate to day.
4 comments:
Groovy!
Well done, my lord ;)
Curioser and curioser, said Anna. Who is she? Methinks we need to talk...or mayhap she be but a (waking) dream?
I hate to be hoodwinked in this way by dreams, it leaves you robbed and sad for the rest of the day . . .
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