I dream of seven singing truths, all sweet and seldom sought,
and melodies on western winds, the words long since forgot.
And distinctly I remember every tale, ever frail,
that echoed through the air on high, their meaning never caught.

I think of what it’s like to be, if being not for naught
and wonder what it’s like to flee as if I’d never fought.
But distinctly I remember how I’d love to be above
these fateful machinations, golden strings all woven taut.

I look for what it is to see, if seeking led to aught
but darkness leads to blindness, leaving only light for thought.
Yet distinctly I remember how she flew and how I knew
that I would see no sweeter sorrow than the sadness that day wrought.

I search for what it means to feel, if feeling not a knot,
and these long-since-past emotions had, like her, no room for rot,
For distinctly I remember her unblemished face, a trace
of which in all my years of loss is the one thing I have brought.

I hear her voice among the truths with ears that I have not.
I tore them off and gouged my eyes t’escape this dreadful plot.
But distinctly I remember every scream within a dream
and in my deaf’ning silence, I can hear her like a shot.

I dream of every pleasant thing to me the fates allot
but every time I find her there, I wake upon my cot,
and distinctly I remember how she used to say my name
and I lie there, sleeplessly, knowing that it’s not the same.


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