In the coldest mornings one cannot rise,
But the sun struggles rising itself too,
And the birds have yet to sing,
for their beaks are sealed with moon.
And the night does not surrender,
And the darkness washes away from gray to blue to apricot,
The streets are filled with ghosts,
And the pavement is cold like Arica or Brighton seas;
I open my eyes once more,
Earlier than before, and I feel the silence break me free.
The dreams I had last night are nothing but gravestones of a graveyard I shall visit later on,
Dream within a dream,
Song to song,
As I walk alone in nightmares I wonder how you had become the song I could never sing along,
And all I can think of is the memories of that photograph I kept from you,
the one I never knew,
the one my witcher heart conjured.
Today in my autumn glazed morning,
I hope for the feet that touch the wooden floor,
To keep my fragile body walking,
And go far beyond these shattered doors;
Where the sky remains gray,
And the mist overlays my lonely path,
And the sun never bathes me as the cold drowning baths,
Where I am alone, and I realize,
That the dreams within dreams are just the past as what we seem to see-
And you are just the photographic fantasy of unspoken memory.