The Cry of Merlin.
My house is a house of dreams
but real - I see it
standing, austere yet vibrant
upon the craggy shoulder of a high
mountain
or the slope of a long green valley...
But who can remember the dreams
of another?
Putting their own to one side,
They might say -
"This day there are wells to dig
and jugs to mend,
the night must be left
to its own devices."
My house is a structure of the unseen,
the uninvited,
It is easy to forget the way home
for though paths to the door
are numerous,
they are quickly disguised
under bramble and thorn -
how many times have I arrived
at the front door
bleeding and unsteady.
How tempting to stay
within those curved beams
which lace the translucent walls
where the lights of a million years
sparkle and drift in sublime purpose,
but this world
is for my sense alone.
Is anyone to understand
the distant sound
that makes a man stop
and crane his ear
for a long second.
Again I leave this house of dreams
grasping new clothes reluctantly,
looking once more
for other sounds -
and chances to share
the subliminal music
of a heavenly sphere.
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