I Dream In Poetry

I dream in poetry and all the colors of autumn. My days are haunted with nuance, the insinuation of a mockingbird, hot luscious sun on my face, the flash of wet, feminine eyes. A day in thirds is music. Morning tunes the day, then statutory noon utters its canto till a liquid violin sunset weeps with passion's colors. I dreamed in spring and green gold promise was a betrayal of hope. Summer has gone, lost lilies drop their seed before the cold wind turns. I dream in poetry and all the colors of autumn. Forgotten songs echo hot nights and memory's kiss. The music has died. Blind day gives way to dreams of falling leaves, and softest night to carry them away.