Beneath the half moon’s ethereal beam,
Put to sleep is the sun the dreamers chased—
Could this be all but a slumbrous dream?
The wakeful skies, in silvery silence, teem
With crumbs of dreams the day has spilled in haste
That light the half moon’s ethereal beam.
Are fears and fancies truly what they seem,
Or fleeting notions bound to be erased—
Like memories from a slumbrous dream?
Which mortal eye can catch and trace the seam
Where the fixed and fickle are interlaced
Herein the half moon’s ethereal beam?
Men of visions dream up many a scheme,
Yet dreams decide for each if they’ll be graced—
Isn’t dreaming itself a cumbrous dream?
Awake to bread and butter, life’s regime—
Gone are the crumbs, the visions’ aftertaste,
Amid the moonset’s slowly waning beam—
Could I be all but a slumberer’s dream?
If life were like the lunar phases, then I am presently neither new nor full. Perhaps, with a few more years of experience, I may be able to revisit this from a completely different angle.
Photo Courtesy: Alphacoder