dreams (a poem)

this is the room 

where dreams died;

so did the painting 

there on the wall.

the world outside 

is a fervent tide

of light, but here 

the shadows fall.

and what were the dreams — 

a babe or wife?

a girl, i think, 

in her exuberant teens,

who ceased to exist 

from the feast of life

when lads and gals 

are prince and queens.

i like to think that she 

chuckled at whites,
her gaze alight

with the sprite of fun,

and knew no agony 

but such as smiles

right after 

the hurt was done.

i named it dream, 

i had no doubts,

because of the rich, 

soft blush she wore;

the roses paled ere 

they dug her out,

and i write these lines 

in the empty room

where dreams died. 

god rest her soul! 

i stood silently 

watching the room

this is the room 

where dreams died;

so did the painting 

there on the wall.