The Somnium Delusion

They talk about the color of his sun-tinted spring tresses,

the light and warmth that traverses his royal-born veins;

in which flows crimson blood from a gently beating heart.

They dream him wrapped in soft lavender morning glories;

a robin on the delicate tip of his pearl-peach fingernail,

singing lullabies as he sways without a voice of his own.

The delusion is not the man- only in flesh is he his mother;

what reflection flickers in the twilight of his weary, shadowy eyes?

Smoke twists between the branches 'cross his darkest chambers.

Moonlit corridors, untraveled by the skipping of younger feet;

the halls of his house are trenches at the bottom of a weeping sea,

skin paled blue and violet, bruised by his screaming and warring.

They talk about the hallucination he conjured from dust motes;

quiet, beautiful, and comforting like the low burning flame.

Author's Note

(L. Sky.)

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I loved how you use the language. I had to read a few times.
"The delusion is not the man- only in flesh is he his mother;
what reflection flickers in the twilight of his weary, shadowy eyes?"
The above lines. Stuck with me. The poem was honest and direct. Delusion, confusions and hallucination. What do we believe? Thank you Anna for sharing the amazing words and thoughts. I enjoyed this one.,
Coyote