What is the stuff of dreams?
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
The morning’s first light has broken the lines,
Yellow on grey; frosty night under day.
Connected, stretching, with yawning bright signs,
Sheets tossed aside, crusty sleep strips away
The senses of dreams, vital yet eerie,
Pulsing like poems, white splashes of flight,
Like the travels of delicate faeries,
From pewter goblets, they fly toward light.
Our nocturnal voyages never reach
The pinnacle of a thing with a name.
These journeys can not be formed into speech.
Like shadows, they are never the same.
Yet souls’ secrets, they are; found with a heart
Succored by truth, when we seek, they impart.