poetry

fields of May

E’er love of one and one, and each of both
Hath spoken afore, betwixt, and with
Ran ‘crost shimmery wheat, fields of May
Ne’er measuring breadth, nor width


I awakened one night from a dream in which I’d written a beautiful poem– of a type that I’ve never even learned to write; I know nothing of poetry types, nearly illiterate in that regard. It went on for pages, in my dream. By the time I was able to write any of it down, this is all that was left, most of it guessed at as I tried to remember. As best I can figure, it was about a love from a past life, rediscovered in a present life. Or maybe I just ate something weird before bedtime.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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