Mythic

Sleep cannot find me.
as in life, I run 
for dreams are where I am bound
where we don’t make love,
love makes us
and I am not afraid. 

every attempt to shake it spurned.
she bestows on me
a poultry a sixth sense for travel.
blissfully aware and torturously ignorant
of any place you are;

it crept up on me,
the shadow of it.
imprinted steps threading the lead
left only to follow
as Eurydice to Orpheus,
wishing you may turn
to meet my eye 
regardless of cost.

And yet, I know you won’t.
For you are not Orpheus, 
and I am not Eurydice,
and I don’t know how not to look at 
you.

Monday, April 6 at 4:11pm

Laurie’s Flowers