by Roxanne Burns

In the twilight of consciousness
Our breath becomes shallow, dreams ebb and flow
Into limpid transparencies.
I climbed a stairway of stars into
Unconsciousness; my eyes opened the door.
Standing at the podium,
I realize Iíve lost my notes.
My eyes seek the remembrance of a dream,
As the morning evaporates into cloudless nightmares.
Can not the waters become our angels,
The pardonable sins of our desires
A wasted deed?
We obsess, we direct, but
We never allow ourselves into the pity of misuse.
The question of life is tantamount
To the endeavors of a sparrow.
My nest is a crypt of odd poems
And unearthly dreams.
In the shame of night, the cycle
Is completed.
My forfeit is a masterpiece
Of inconsistencies.
A dream is, after all, only a filament
Of the waking mind, compassionate friend of the soul.
I was murdered by a benevolent and influential
Dream, the boldness of which dissipates
Into nocturnal breezes,
Flights of fancy for the untold story.
Told amongst a few of the neighbors,
I leave you to disband now, to quietly
Knock at the doors of life.
But you refuse.