i think my mother still fancies me a writer – or a poet ~ what’s the difference ~ yes, I know; one is lauded for making sense, the other of passing repute, a relic of a bygone time, I know, for it is I.
The curtain which i thought was blue,
adorned with shape of butterflies,
in daylight i see that its fibers are green
yet it hangs with the same attitude.
A happy dream shall I dare ask to see?
That road to Realms of subtle gates again,
will it so deign to wait for soul effete,
inexorably changed by Time’s sure strain?