if you choose, allow me to wander off into some dreams –

dreams not of riches,
material and plush,

dreams of the sublime tingle,
pulsing through my being,

our lips brushing – an intoxicating rush –

dreams of us under the copper sun,

brushing your hair from my face,

as we cascade on rivulets of lapping waves,

far, far away from this time,

this desolate place –

dreams of feeling our souls entwine,
your breath against mine,

released from this sham of being,

unshackled from the ritualistic pantomime –

dreams, yes so many dreams,

afloat on the currents of murmuring desire,

alive, aflame,

there is no doubting,
this furnace,

this raging fire –

dreams, meagre paltry dreams …