Last night the drape was thin and billowy.
Dreams seen through the weep of a willow tree.
Shapes without texture, beings without plights.
A curtain of fog, turning days into nights.
I stood on a corner in the land of nod.
One not crossed in maps of men or gods.
And wondered whether I was found or lost.
Waiting in calm for a morrow tempest-tossed.
But morning light brought me no clarity.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged Dreams, Morpheus, poem, poetry, sleep by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.