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An innocent dream
August 16, 2021
At last, the last of the last days
Feeling of the burning hay was flying on my face
In the wild beauty of love, was my little mess
There I was, strangling in my darkness
Or rather stuck in my own head
They call it madness, I call it beauty
I keep it in, they shout it out
Is it just a thought or an epiphany?
Or just another deadly drought
I see it all now in hindsight
I try to tell but all they see me do is lie
Maybe I was not the girl they wanted to see
Love remained just as an invisible string
Which kept all my dreams tied in a creaking ring.
© Cynthia L., Darnestown, MD
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There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter. —Rachel Carson