In the springtide gleam of reveries, I am adrift,
my faithful hankerings full of sleep, sepulchred in the void of dreamless dreams
Sheltered in the golden silence
of a pair of eyes―infinite with longing.
Their enkindled gaze—ardent like the moon, swallows time itself.
The somnolent relics of those prevernal afternoons sown into the night,
gently blossom into fragrant dreams that come and go,
tiredly moving with the moon,
like wreaths of burning amber fumes,
redolent of a rain many years ago,
melting away into the past too soon.
A dusky eye, senescent with the ancient look of sempiternal longing, regards me in the mirror.
“What do you want from me?” It asks.
Night recedes into the opaline haze of dawn,
and I am awake still,
my faithful hankerings full of sleep,
I don’t know what I say
as the waning moon turns away its lambent face from mine.
Accounts of a Ghost 