by empty words in empty beds.
A litany of reprimands,
all firm resolve and weak demands,
(all crushed in desperate, wringing hands).
Translucent, vague, and fragile dreams,
a butterfly’s infected wings;
Through weeping fog and Spanish moss,
where bitter seeds
bear withered crops.
Embraced as truth,
cast out, deceived-
what I had dreamed,
these lies believed,
Had nothing much to do with me,
just echoes from a distant drum
toward which I crawled
but should have run.