The night grew late,
            The moon hung high,
            Walking through a dream went I.
The mountains vainly bore their quills,
I proudly paced upon those hills.

My even step
            Was clear and crisp,
            Like good intentions before a wish.
So perfectly the seconds swept,
That closer to the dream I crept.

The full serene,
            Awoke my eyes.
            It was love granted to the despised,
Beauty's soft, and firm, command,
Corralled me to a gentle plan.

And in the dream,
            Upon the hill,
            Emotions that slept cold and still,
Awoke in song and echo proud,
Beside the marching summer clouds.

I closed my eyes,
            And slowly climbed,
            Into the catacombs of my breathing mind,
To test the tingling promenade,
That held my shallow masquerade.

And in those thoughts,
            Beneath that sun,
            My tired war its rage had run;
Was growing quiet long and deep.
The beast within began to sleep.

The anger fell.
            The guilt now slept,
            As close to the waking world I crept.
Free of years, of pain, of ills,
By dreams of soft, green, mountain quills.
 

John Grace
MS III