Dreams Poem by Nick Kasparie

What thought, belief, of what I’ve dreamed is naught
It’s naught but that which I have dreamed before
Though months have passed since last I ever thought
I would go back, back by the tidal bore

E’en yet I still arise from troubled dreams
The morning light cannot be ever more
No never more than feeble, sickly beams
No help to me as I’m swept to your shore

And through the day my weak attempts all fail
To think of aught but what I’ve seen in bed
The whisper of your voice is now a gale
It sings your name around my naked head

I truly am a battered man at best
Until you’re mine, I know I shall not rest