I awoke from a sleep so deep
that it took a while to remember
that we had never met

My hand groped in vain to find
the one that was never there
but that all of me knows should be

No Dickensian blot of mustard
was this dream, but a foretelling
of what life could come to be

two imperfect parts of a whole
separated by miles and the lives
that came before our time was right

at last together and able to forge
that perfect thing about which poets sing
and which endures beyond the grave


©2003 These works are copyrighted by the author and all rights are reserved. Theft will be punished by having your nipples rubbed with a cheese grater. Unless of course you like that sort of thing, in which case you'll be made to listen to telemarketers and tel-evangelists until you give them all your money.

- posted by Roadkill Poet @ 11:45 PM