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Poem

The embers burn like gold and red dreams in my bed
I feel them in the fall after summer has taken their lives
Smooth and crisp at the same time waiting for the fire to bring them wings
And dance upon the harvest moon beams of joy and forgiveness
It is a time of cold beginnings and losses never to be regained
We marched across the steppes into the land of spiders and boys
Little girls watch from afar never understanding the enchantment of the fire
It is for young men to make their winter beds and slip into cool streams
Float on a full moon night
Icy
Dark
Incriminating 
Merciless
Down to the bottom of the Miller’s creek where the demons wait in satin 
Smooth as time and as old as the four winds.
We cannot wait to see their tongues forked in the wind
Whispering out unto the sea.  Entrancing dragons of old that sailed on the ships of the Norse.
Come into my bed.  Breathe the danger of my musk.  It will bring you back to the bars of Constantinople and we will smoke the opium of yellow men.
And in that smoke we will rise up and understand the fall of the Romans and the rise of the Muslim’s.  For ours are not the dreams of great men.
They are the dreams of children playing with boats on a pond.  To shallow to drown to dumb to live.  
I give it all for you.
For you I burn the embers.

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