Michael Edwards




She lies arrayed in languid form

and deep within her flurried mind

the nightly patterns interweave

igniting flames of fantasy.


In homage to her servitude

a victim of unfettered dreams

of sands that trickle in the glass

and well honed scythes that swing.


And on she sleeps till embers die

to wake anew with fevered brow

and lie as if in cast of bronze

in early mornings solitude.