Oh, Dream.



On the gloaming surf of the dark shore,
I lay my abled hands on the crimson darkened porcelain glass
On the shadows of warmth, etched from a pale glistening scar of an ivory white that blooms in miry winter
And I trace—pressing against the folds and hems of skin that caves in pearl, frail ash,
Crying out, nearly deaf, “Where are you? I do not see you—Where? Are you even here?”

It was a cascade of warmth that makes me forget the flares among weeping memories,
Gushed with a stolid eventide on the pale, slick trees with ripples, secular, in mundane rains
And frozen was the currents of the shivering white honey wounds that implore centuries
Of dew on the tongue of soft, tattered snow, and I cry out, kind one, do you see?
(What of the broken harvest of the autumn, and the rolling downfall through the burning river?)

View original post 210 more words

This entry was posted in Uncategorized on by .

About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.