A poem by LILY MARTIN. 

 

We talk in between dreams, you and I,

the careful weavers of golden canvas,

the makers of the silk thread sky.

Our needle slips softly ‘tween rhythm and lie

as we snare quiet incandescence;

trapping memories in sticky, illicit, essence.

 

We talk in between dreams, you and I,

When we hear the muffled scream,

cries hesitant twixt the red, woollen, thread.

We gaze with delight, revelling omnipotence –

what blatant and piteous dreams

fill their hearts with unspent dread?

 

We used to talk in between dreams, you and I,

until you stumbled upon youthful desires,

until you dared glance at broken pyres,

at cracks of hope and valour and arrogance,

at paper rolled highs and youthful indulgence.

 

I lost you,

or rather, you and I.

Now you tread softly through the wood of liars,

lest you wake their slumber –

their dreams turn to wisps of thunder.

 

I used to talk in between dreams,

I watched pale pink dawn overcome ink beams:

I used to thread silk spires;

idle towers with my small lyre.

They’ve left me –

those musings between dreams.

They’ve breached the walls of ecstasy,

they’ve left me light,

breathless,

empty.

I look now through split lips of chance,

her lips shut she blocks my advance.

Again, again, I try:

I have become the sum of my desires,

I breathe – feed the fire.

 

I used to walk in between dreams,

I waded through god’s great seams –

eyes watering, straining, needing to see.

But you’re lost in my hazily threaded weave.

What a fool you seem,

Only fools close their eyes to dream.