A Bent Flame
Waking to this cool December wind is my escape for now
The way it curls up my back and neck and parts my bedridden
hair.
Until I pull the dream-tossed covers back over my
shoulders.
And reach silently, yet desperately, for one more dream,
One more moment of beautiful sleep.
Where this maze of never-ending thought is less deafening.
For I am a grey-day shadow chaser
Longing for the dream that will set me apart from
everything.
Like the steam that rises from my morning coffee
And lingers just long enough to be remembered.
That stranger you passed just the other day, that’s me.
Wasting ink on hand-written books
That will undoubtedly be collecting dust
In someone’s attic years from now.
A whisper that bent the flame if only for a second.
Hanan Dickerson 1998
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