In Morning's Grim LightThe candy heart-shaped stepping stones,
The cottage hidden in the woods, the songbirds
Always overhead, heard just above the soothing
Murmur of the brook beside the cottage;
All of these were fantasies. The woman of such
Loveliness I had to close my jaw by hand, who
Passed by passers-by with me, her fingers threaded
Through my own, her voice another songbird's sound,
So loving it seemed, can't be heard. The dream
Is dead. The cottage is a sterile flat some floors
Above a port which yowls; it doesn't murmur.
I pass passers-by alone on soulless sidewalks.
Not on stepping stones.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2019-03-27 at 01:20
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