adventures in dysthymia

Friday, September 16, 2005


The shadow you cast
has outlasted
the memory of our sun.
It shone on your face.

We made the dawn
our lover, then;
we slept in the cool arms
of a summer past.

Night and all
its distant stars
tell me I once dreamed;
and dreams must slip away.

Would I were
a pine, binding
rock-rooted earth to sky.
I yearn toward heaven.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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