You are the feeling of a dream upon waking...
A memory that isn't quite clear,
But prompts the occasional smile.
I've plucked all the thorns
So I can safely hold the blossom,
Seeing clearly as I look back
That the dream was so much more
Than the reality could ever have been.
You looked so lovely to me
In my haze of angels and alcohol.
I still cry occasionally,
Mourning the death of the 'blossom' you...
The you who was run through with thorns
And left to die of the bleeding.

©1998 Gail Von Schlichting


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