Days of unexpected grace,
clasped in the arms of dreams
you sense will dissipate like wraiths,
wisps of air that ruffle leaves
but cannot be contained or stayed,
elusive djinns, invisible and chaste.
Days when anything could happen,
yet the slightest move, false beat
or misplaced thought disrupts the trance,
the astral strands of gossamer
that link the dreamer, now awake,
to labyrinths that sleep erased,
leaving, as their echo fades,
a teasing, undeciphered phrase,
a nameless, tantalising aftertaste...
Aftertaste
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111022303562
Свидетельство о публикации №111022303562
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