Matthew Thomas Donovan
The Faces in the Crowd
The sun is deposed by the moon as
Another evening casts its ashen veil,
Turning the sky into a faint cloth
Punctuated by flickering sparks, quick and pale.
But in my dreams there is more than darkness,
There is life where sleep had only slept.
I toss and turn in the depth of pitch,
Under sheets where thoughts had seldom crept
The marrow of falling dreams,
Grown destitute by daylight,
Descends its shade until both
Earth and space are one in the void.
And having sunk into this vision
I dreamed a vision of things I had known
While living [seemingly] so long ago.
I saw the facades of those people I had met,
Visages blank as flesh canvases,
Unpainted by God, so much like those
Unborn children cast unto their mother’s womb.
Born to parents, strangers, by
Commanding torrents of chance or fate,
Feeding from violet tubes
Until they dared to wake.
And in this dream they walked about
As though in a meandering daze,
Wandering echoes of a promiscuous mind,
Finding their world’s become amazed
In how it amuses itself with its own absurdity.
Eventually I woke from those lonely depths.
The sun greeted me with its burning touch
Which bid my eyes open to the morning air.
Upon this disturbance
I wished to fall back into darkness and
Dream again, but
I am no longer sleeping,
I am here.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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