Our Wood

Our Wood...

Is a magical place
where I laid my head...
in your lap... and ran my
fingers through your hair...
I told you my greatest dreams
and cried my saddest songs...
where my dreams came to...
nothing

I dreamed of finding you
in our wood...
of birches and firs
of sunflowers and golden bumblebees
who buzzed and buzzed
around two ghostly figures
that sought to find one another
and almost did...

I cried for the peace of our wood
by a brook of crystal waters
formed by tears of...
anguished hearts who roam and roam
the valleys and hills of life
in search of ...
a dream too good to be true...
and it is.

The slumber of drunkenness
provides no relief, nor brings me closer...
to our wood, where we sought to join
in a place that time stood still
where joy would last...
but whose magic is short-lived

That I’ve resigned myself to a life...
of... dreams, slumber, dizzing heights
and deepest lows...is but a dialectical process.
A statue in our wood dries... ever harder
and harder... the plaster conforms
to fate’s unseen hand that...
shapes a mold it did not choose.
My contribution is...
the tear in its eye.

By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name