In truth she cries out nothing
But to fantasists she screams
All colors burning brightly in the flavors of their dreams.
In love she speaks of nothing
But she whispers in your ear
"Don't forget about the future for the present's day is near".
In shadows she is fleeting
But the theatres of desire
Shroud her in the robes of meaning and the dash-dot of the wire.
I can see her smiling sweetly
As she nearly smiled at me
And I dwell on every gesture of pure triviality.
She could launch a thousand faces
She could face a thousand ships
In the harbor of the sublimates where the sleepwalkers are grips.
And she plays a solemn siren
As somnambulances speed
Toward the doorways of unconsciousness
Where these visions intercede.