Sunken Dreams

Many nights I've spent aloft

With liquid splendor intoxications.

I suppose at times your Trojan gifts still fool me,

And I consume these delusions, these lotus petals.

But as I hear Odysseus' call, I awake,

And grand uncertainties coil under reality's heel.

If hope were crafted like Michelangelo's tender designs—

With dimples and crevices that cheer my desires—

Then let stone float as Fata Morgana,

Lost between the meeting of boundless freedom

And a dark, sobering stillness below.

DION A.