Somewhere Between Elma and Shelton

I dreamed of moving northward once more,
Sliding, like a fawn or bobcat, into epic
Undergrowth, with moss-encrusted firs
And maples, ferns and mounded berry vines
Absorbing me. My trail would end, and,
Though I would have come for you, I would,
As it turns out I have, have slipped away
To be alone, a wounded beast who'd learned
His love was futile. I'd have understood
Too late that dreams are dreams. They are not
Real, and you are his. You won't be mine.
The undergrowth, the rain, will be the end
Of me. The dream will die a tortured death,
Though whether there is not established.
I may choose to let it perish later, when I've
Gone back home onto the prairie, and to all
These years when I believed I'd be with you.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 129 times
Written on 2019-08-19 at 08:37

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