Instrument of the Sorrowful


Was I the subject of a dream?
An illusion, draped in lace and satin,
hung over the enchanted shoulders
of my mind’s masterpiece?
Did my fantasy play my love
like a slow and secret waltz,
twirling around with a hazy smile
flying on my lips,
only to end the music,
one note gliding above me,
a gleam in its teasing eye,
into a colorless morning.

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