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Sick, twisted hope
Which nurtures in me a
Delight in the impossibility
Of the unimaginable

Dashed and crushed
Sprinkled with a smidgeon
Of irony
Do I dare?

The wondrous is for the wonderful
While the grim is for the reapers

I too can write sonnets
To the souls of elbows
And verses to creasy knees

Tell me a truth, I’ll tell you a lie

Torn asunder by the prospect
Of belief
Dreams about dreams
Bitter and sweet

To tell a story…
Without words
Without shape
But thoughts
Of tomorrow and yesteryear

Of melancholy and things
That ought to be
Of things left unsaid
And girls that ought
To be me

Of notes of desire
That sighs
With a dying fall
Perhaps
Perhaps
Perhaps
Of languishes unspoken
And misunderstood

A ray, sliver
A drop, a chance

The naked trees scream
My name
…it was all a dream