“I ran and ran and ran in my wild dream”

I ran and ran and ran in my wild dream,
To come to you, but you were always far;
My breath felt raw and I heard my lungs scream
With pain, but you were an out-of-reach star.
No matter how high I jumped or how fast
I ran, you evaded my hand. I cried;
Through mind’s memory, I made the tears last;
But, time passed, my mind failed, my tears dried.
I ran toward you and you gazed at me,
Then, slowly, turned away, I fell – you saw –
You stopped, concerned, but your heart was not free,
Bound by Fame, in its voluntary claw,
It carried you into the sun far from me;
With you went my heart far, far, far from me.

3rd December

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“I hear the quick sweep of the sweeper’s brush”

I hear the quick sweep of the sweeper’s brush,
Dust billows around and around the air,
Bringing upon its face a ruddy flush
That makes me stop my work and loan a stare
To particles of grime that lift, to float,
Aimlessly, and move, here and there, to float,
Upon this window sill, that man’s wool coat…
My mind trips and wonders at my thought’s gall:
My thought: to be a speck of dirt on you,
To be with you, move with you, live with you,
To imbed myself upon you; be true
To just you and be all that you be, too.
A flick of your finger shall waste me though;
As Man or Dirt cannot cancel my woe.

3rd December.

Darkness and Thorns.

The sky has dropped its foul, grey hue
Upon this world and me;
And when the wind comes howling through,
It brings no felicity.

The birds have lost their will to sing,
And mourn this darkened hour;
The sun becomes a had-been thing,
Which once had supreme power.

Those clouds that touch the earth are dark
And cover the surfaces of seas;
While ashes billow with each spark
And hound all like swarms of bees.

The world has no more flowers to offer
And there are thorns, thorns in my way;
And, I know, my blooms lie in a coffer,
But my thorns will not wilt away.

4th August