The dream took all that still remained,
the tangled hours beneath my side,
while hunger, wild and unrestrained,
devoured itself, then sought to hide.
The weary sun spoke to the sky,
a thread of light, so faint, so frayed,
and I, with dreams that bled me dry,
could not find rest, nor strength to stay.
Yet none of this could dim my view:
I dream of you with open eyes,
and speak what crowds would bid me rue.
In cold solitude, my hands remain,
holding what silence cannot steal:
your face, suspended through the days.
