Most of my dreams are black and white,
A sickly world lit by moonlight.
Golden wheat under setting sun
Igniting quickly fades to dun,
To dim, to shadow, then to black.
A full moon won’t bring colors back.
Night is no dream, but serious.
Even if it hinders vision,
We can’t become delirious —
We’ve no excuse for misprision.
Fear is something other, the end
(Not of meaning or misreading,
The touch of warm flesh, or needing)
Of sight only the sun can mend.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: