The Fevered Dream


The dreams have him now -
he will not return;
as within their grasp,
he tosses and burns.

Hearing music now,
none other can hear;
eyes wide, unseeing,
gaze at nothing near.

He cries out a name,
so sweet to the ear;
but none recognize,
the sound without peer.

Dreams he of a love,
without parallel;
by chance should he wake,
day will break the spell.

On the dawn to greet,
his waking is naught -
no dream will persist,
all vanish if sought.

Yet struggles he,
in ignorance;
still wishing to wake,
for that small chance.

Wishing dream to last,
and her to be real -
that something will stay,
such love he does feel.

The waking eludes, 
fantasy surrounds;
just outside his world,
reality hounds.

With brow full of sweat,
his passion does grow;
fate ever unknown,
for no one can know.

His fevered brow cools,
the dream breaks at last;
she beckons to him,
his suffering past.

He flies to her arms,
they clasp in embrace;
both rising upwards,
as the wind gives chase.

On the ground below,
his body lies cold;
no dreams remain,
but an empty mold.

Smile frozen in place,
dead eyes look above -
they follow the flight,
of he and his love.



(c) 2002 Robert H. Harrison