Diary of a Self-Consious Dream

If I were not a snowglobe

With water in my hair,

Chastened to the day before me

And bound to a flurry of hope,

We might elope together

Woman and bad weather,

Towards something less disposible.

But for now

And possibly eternity,

Shivering in my immure

I am white as Paper,

The only one to hold me.

 

Though plentiful and real things

Like you

Can grow cold too

Without that sweet forboding

Sense of exploding

Beneath the skin, –

The blemished cheek

Struggletospeak

Fireworks within –

Dust is an arctic blanket

Upon the shoulders

Of a snowglobe like me.

 

Merely a perpetual

Nonsensical conceptual

Mantel-piece mirage,

With water in my hair,

What do I know.

 

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