A lover, a rose and a sad roundelay.

A jester, a lyre
And a mist painted moon,
Shaded illusion
In silver
Diffusion,
A flame of desire
That was gone all too soon,
Tired and jaded
The magic
Had faded,
Just the jester alone
As he strikes up a tune,
To sing by the light
Of the mist painted moon.


A lover, a rose
And a sad roundelay,
Tortured temptation
And shattered
Elation,
When beauty is dead
Then the thorns have their say,
Just a dark dusty room
With a tainted
Perfume,
Where the lover sits down
And he picks up the lyre,
For a lover can play
Such a sad roundelay…





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Dream the dreams that once had tip-toed softly through your sleep
Dream of the immeasurable, so silent and so deep,
Believe in the impossible, yet be prepared to doubt
Your whispers are just dreams of night that haven’t learned to shout.

Believe between your sentences, the reasons why you speak
And also in those timeless things, like kisses on the cheek,
Believe the night’s exquisite silk that slips across your face
And wraps the dreams you need to keep, in fluttering snow white lace.

Savour the scent of midnight green and breathe the forest’s air
So many scents are captivating, and yet none can quite compare,
Soft moonlight on a silent dell still calls in its own way
And even though it is unheard, has still so much to say.

Those things you see behind closed eyes are more than shades of grey
They are more like the echoes coming back from yesterday,
And all you need to do to is catch them softly in your hand
Then as you arise to wakefulness, you’ll surely understand…
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