The Dream Story
It is late. It is the night of the new year. My head still lays upon a hard prison pillow. Whence my eyes peel open, it shall be the 29th year. I feel as though I reside in the country side of the condemned….. Yet this is not my thoughts to write….. Dear Queen Mary of Scots: In my dream I am writing to thee. For I know that you had spent most of your entire life in prison. But yet you found romance, a romantic, as I. For, we are simply lovers of love. We are something that they wish to lock away. They hate the hearts that beat within us. For they cannot see the dying flower in our eyes. Eyes that full, that forever longing grail with tears. I so know those long years that they had you locked away, oh Queen Mary of Scots; hope was thy only food. The large room and its thick wooden door that kept you was as a town, ever dark. Like I, your love, lost as the far off fading laughter of children. And I know there were times you thought someone from the heavens poisoned your soul. Yes, poisoned by no love and only that mad man in your head, telling what he knows of the long prison night. Oh Mary, Queen of Scots, I know how you wished free wind on your very sweet breath that leaves your two lips that sigh….. There, as I, always a long window to pull, draw, those eyes to the moon. Giving a spreading of such hurt across the eyes upon your heart. Yes, how I know what they put you through. How you would give all of the blood flowing within for just a kiss from him. It is still the same Mary. It shall never change. They will always push, shove, us so merrily within the four walls. Never to release us to love, live, forever more….. So I shall close my letter to thee on this night of year’s changing. Thee are to know that I promise I will find you some day and move ever so close to your scented neck and whisper a poem ….. just for you.
Your’s Whence We Meet,
George
Copyright: 12973
Date: 1-1-12