If Nobody Speaks of Remarkeable Things
If nobody speaks of remarkable things
Consciousness hides behind curtains of sleep,
Bright lights dim in the cerebral gloom,
Thoughts of tomorrow hold no credible guise,
A vacuum grows in the cognitive womb.
Fantasies slip into nothingness,
Dreams disperse on the breeze,
The words of Petrarch drift back into time,
When rivers of love start to freeze.
Winter decries its slow painful thaw
When ambushed by warmth in the spring,
Tender new shoots would shrivel and die,
If nobody speaks of remarkable things.
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