Falling Asleep At Shore


A shallow form approaches
Over dark, night-shadowed waterscape
My recumbent, settled head
With languor.

Or seems, as closer by nor nearer
Does it come, but hangs
Just hangs a distance from my sight
A muse.

But the fluid lap and ebb
Where Lake meets her prison wall,
All quietly the atmosphere
Awaits. Or seems, again, only.

When a whisper beckons
From out this languid, hovering shape
Of nothing clear or known:
“Speak me,”
Though words it does not use.

‘Our Moon is hiding
Beyond these clouds,’ I think,
Though clouds I cannot see;
(I’ll think not on what silent words
This night muse speaks to me.)

“Speak,” it says, nearer now
Within my own resolve, as
My drooping eyes drift downward,
Flitting lightly toward
What dream I’ll not remember.


About A. S. Ellis

I am always learning. Always. And that is as it should be.
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