In Memoriam Bliss / Empty-handed (poem)

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


To dream such dreams,

to banish despair with the conjured light of face and form,

drawn perfectly from decades ago--

such is the magic of faerie wings and moon beams.

In that twisting and infinite moment,

perhaps a reflection of what was in another time or yet what might be,

I see her, for the first time in years, and know a joyous contentment

that I can no longer reach in the waking world.

In that moment, I break

quarantine and embrace her,

she melts into my arms and there is no boundary between

us.

My hand seeks hers and she grips me fiercely,

as if afraid she will vanish into my unconscious once again.

I pull her somehow closer still, equally determined to hold her forever

but this happy dream cannot hold.

I cannot sleep forever.

I can already feel it collapsing,

She vanishes in an instant,

and all I feel is the dissipating warmth of her hand.

I wake totally

alone.

I wouldn't trade even a second of the dream,

yet I feel choked with such loss, such lonely grief,

that is the essence of despair.


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