No.7
1/29/2004
Copyright © 2004 Loughry
All Rights Reserved

I think perhaps you are about to end. Not you, but the fantasy you’ve become, May soon slip past my eyes, behind the bend, Bringing to me a phase, strange, yet welcome. You who are always a few steps ahead, Appear to portend this coming. I will Know soon, and in knowing, sleep calm abed. Stop my fool’s sleep; surely your words shall kill. But, perhaps your eyes will speak to the fool, Of warm holds, mated souls, and butterflies, For these are they, I use as writing tools. Good-bye, sweet fantasy, for half denies. ……Yes you may end, yet your seeds shall survive. ……For of you, through them, myself won’t deprive.