Like a moth to flame she burns
for open spaces, unwritten hope
of a journey on the open road.
Night after night she returns,
wind rushing through her hair
so that she wakes unkempt
from an other imagined world,
stretching into grim reality
as a grey day dawns
and the street returns to life.

People look at her as they pass,
windswept dreamer
in an old and tattered coat,
but they do not see her
do not know she seeks the waking life,
gazing into the flickering fire
in the hope of glimpsing eternity
as the flame flutters and falters
before rearing its golden head
in a last, defiant roar.

Battered and broken
by endless fire-dives
finally she gives up,
lets go,
while all the people pass
silently clinging in terror
to their certain lives.
But not the dreamer,
stretched across a park bench
on a cold winter’s morning:
she lets the flame in,
fuses with the light and
is lost forever to
simple air and heat,
an empty space and point of light
in a dark and barren room.

The dreamer’s dream
of love and life
fuels the flame once more
and on it burns
and on she burns
both forever bright.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s