“I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.”―Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights
In these dreams, I write in colors I’ve always known
for in my very breath flows shades of indigo
that at times catch, leaving me breathless
searching, always searching for more.
Born in fall’s waiting air, trees dressed in leaves
of scarlet and gamboge I entered the world
with barely a cry, such a solemn child
searching, searching for an eternal home.
And in her sweet eyes I peered,
seeing my own odd reflection
naught but a new helpless babe
with a shock of burnished red-golden
fine hair, nary a thought or care
of how I came to be there,
drowning in her indigo eyes
searching for home nevermore.