John 1:3 If through You All things were made And all things are possible I know why Lilacs smell like rainbows And antiseptic Winter wind Stings like steel Needles in my vein I remember one summer Sweet as lemonade Sharp as a scalpel blade. In my dream I taste warm cinnamon I kneel beneath Watercolor skies Fold my hands Round this tiny wren Its injured wing Quivers Like its Trembling heart I unfold my hands But I will not wake Until my dreams Become memories And I keep my memories To do with as I please.
Categories
On Memories and Dreams
I Could Be Wrong 