BY THE DAWN
I reach again for human goals to find my dreams denied,
I walk this line of leery souls to see mine's left behind.
I'm told Song is the saving grace, and Time the travesty,
But what sweet verse could e'er replace this dying part of me?
I linger by the testament of images long dead,
But question not emotion spent on words I thought once said.
Nor, holding true the man I am, let I this vision slide;
For in the end who gives a damn when all that's left is Pride?
Oh, Reaper, stand and heed this call, if cryptic in its tune;
I shall not wince, no not at all, should my walkway be strewn
With flowers laced in soft white death - but in knowing the source,
Within the misting baby's breath, would smile in due recourse.
In breathless shivers by the dawn, as Hope reaches the height
Of feral admiration drawn, I only wait for Night.
The symbiotic aftertone, the Bethany of Chance;
I cry to wind and sky, alone, for my deliverance...
But often wonder, times like these, what's going through my head?
...To think that Time could ‘er appease these feelings so well fed.
...To think that I could ever seize the moment in it's wake;
Or Love might find it feasible to end this lifelong ache.
Michael R. Anderson
But dreams of those who dream as I,
Aspiringly, are damned and die.
[This message has been edited by Michael (edited 06-19-2001).]