Tiny dancer from my dreams,
Just out of reach
And outside of my present reality.
Where do you go during the long
Hard
Nights?
Whose dreams do you dance through
When not dancing for me,
and how can I keep you?
The silence seems to grow with the black of night
And it only drives the splinters of loneliness deeper,
But there is hope in that smile.
There is a new writing that happens
that I WILL TO BE
when there are not consequences.
My art will not choke,
surely will not drown,
in this free space.
You could not stop the word,
not by ending the site,
because there is paper,
or destroying paper,
because there is voice and signals,
and not by endings my movements,
because of the mind,
or of ending my life,
as there may somehow be dreams.
Maybe,
somehow.
You occupy my dreams;
is that a good omen,
or a warning sign?
Sleep begs my surrender,
but the words come first,
the words are always first.
Could tomorrow be important,
or will it be another day on the calendar,
where nothing of consequence happens?
I feel the warm, fuzzy happiness,
or not truly caring either way,
as I drift off in between these lines.
You occupy my dreams;
is that a good omen,
or a warning sign?
Sleep begs my surrender,
but the words come first,
the words are always first.
Could tomorrow be important,
or will it be another day on the calendar,
where nothing of consequence happens?
I feel the warm, fuzzy happiness,
or not truly caring either way,
as I drift off in between these lines.
Andy Veilleux 