i dream’d i dwelt in hallowed halls
made of the coldest stone
dressed in ash of fires rash
that burned me to the bone
—
i dream’d i lay there dead to life
but living in my death
entranced the most by hollow ghosts
who stole my every breath
—
i dream’d i saw the poets there
frozen as in sleep
their granite blood had quenched the flood
of tears i could not weep
—
is this our life? i asked of all
to die yet while we live?
or to in death the solace seek
that life would never give?
—
and as i spoke i thought they stirred
the ghosts grew thin and frail
the light grew bright inside the night
of mausoleums pale
—
they breathed, they rose, they op’ed their eyes
their tongues let loose with song
their spirits cast from dark at last
to join the living throng
—
i dream’d i dwelt in halls of praise
illumined by the Son
and there i wrote my book of hope
and none would have me gone
Very Nice. I like the rhythm of these piece. Overall a meditative poem. I really like the poets “frozen/ as in sleep” part. Is this a condemnation of poetry? Is poetry dead?
Anyway, thanks for the thoughts.
From: onepennyprofiles@wordpress.com (I do short stories. Read’em and Weep.)
Hope you are doing good…….
Miss your posts!
~Namaste~
I would echo the rhythm comment. I like the whole shebang, also.
N8 T8