Shadow of a Dream
In unlikely hands, I was presented to a forgotten memory.
I thought little of it at first, but as I followed the world down in rest, the sapphire of such thought beguiled an immediate focus I had never given before. It was under the crepuscular blanket of night I gradually doted on the girl, and only then alone, I realized how dreadful solitary is.
Whilst the somnolent lullaby of purple twilight played, I journeyed in dream to a hill of maple trees. The cooling coo of midnight breeze painted ethereal scenes, but I was no fool to their distraction. I walked silently uphill–two buckets silently clanking against jeans, slow heart pulsing under slower breath–and approached the tree nearest me. I knelt and collect the dulcet sap; I waited and watched nectar thoughts collect in the cold metal pails as the twilight sky blended into the ground at the horizon. Only when the pails were full did I release the slightest of contentment and listen to the darkness symphony play. It was a pleasant walk home: I dare not say a more mellifluous tune comforted my hard work.
But slowly, I found myself yearningly saddened with each passing second. Time had severed a bond second only to a visual adoration–second was I as her probable choice. In once-loving darkness, I realized the umbrage of maple trees stained requited tenderness into unrequited love. She was resplendently angelic, but she had no place in my dark sunset world.
I returned back to bed with empty pails of stale recollections and fell back into quiescent thought. Had I knew the buckets leaked, perhaps I would have waited another night. Impatience was too dimming, so it was because I left without ability of sight I sleep tonight without a shadow of a dream.
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