The Dream Was Dead.

The dream passed away in silence...
With gravity eyes that clenched the moon.
For all who would see her that dusk,
In darkness fell their shying swoon.

I swore the dream was dead that hour.
And swore more that she would never return.
This requiem of imagination...
Would never let its fires burn.

But then there came a chillest voice...
From darkest waters, from black, murky tarn.
And the portrait of my soulless window...
Saw coldness in the eyes redrawn.

For I had thought this dream was dead...
But no, amazing...
The dream survived.

For my soul slept long enough to wither...
And dream that it had only died.