The Sweetest Dream

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Filtering through fog and lace
and tinted panes,
the sun nudges dream’s illusion
into reality:

clouds, a patch of blue—
a gentle snore picks up the rhythm and drone
of purrs beside me,
half-buried in a sleepy trench
of warm sheets.

Does it matter
if the sweetest dream is broken
when the dark side’s light and longing
hold nothing in comparison
to this?

A chimera of coloured memories
of a life gone by
—as frivolous as
sandals in snow —
melt from consciousness,
fade like the bruises
no longer tattooed on my heart.

There is only now
and this cerulean blue as you awake,
the colour of your gaze—
cool, liquid, kind.
The last vestiges of fog, of dreamy gauze
and childish wanting
vanish and drown in the deep ocean swell
of this bright
and beautiful day.

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21 thoughts on “The Sweetest Dream

  1. Waking up to fog this morning, it was perfect to read your poem. “Does it matter
    if the sweetest dream is broken when the dark side’s light and longing hold nothing in comparison to this?” So true and very beautiful. Thanks Jennifer.

    Liked by 1 person

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