Thursday, April 19, 2012

Wakings Door

Wake for the day, if not for the thought made
Clear in you mind at dawns first light. You wade
Through dreams at the brink of your doorstep, slip
And fall through the mist of memories past,
As though a sailor holding to the mast
In a swell, a surge at sea; now you dip
Through the waters clinging for dear life's fate,
Fell from the mast into the sea, fish's plate.
Yet will yourself to wake! Do not fade here
In the morning fog, rake leaves from the ground
That no thorn or bog in this place appear!
Let go of the waking mists that you've found.
Never was reality blended so well
With dreams than at the waking door, fell towns.

                                             Wakings Door, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

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