Stolen dreams

There was no satisfaction in that deed
of stolen dreams, its aftermath an artful
sheathe of anxious piety; it really was no
challenge, truth be told, a needlessly insensate
act to perpetrate, a trashy tour of arrogance
enacted in a wholly passive space.

And then the strike that killed the magic in a single
blow, rewrote the sentiment and glory glistening
from an early Autumn shower, despoiled the infant
tears that trickled down, ignored the easy fourteen
season’s story – quelled the myth and so denied the
wishes of the slender teenage poet’s tender heart.

The orphaned dream intones a carolled cry, the
guileless poet lives a blameless lie, belies a symphony
abandoned to an empty scene, a play that’s never
played, a scene that’s never seen by candid eyes
or touched with all imaginings from stolen dreams
that surely never lived and truly never died.
© I.D. Carswell