Poem-A-Day: Day 74

Sonnet #44 (Out of Syncopation)

Spending time in darkness daily dreaming,
and in some conscious subconscious science
I see strange reflected echoes gleaming
like the champions of self reliance
boasting toasts of touching those tender thighs;
the kind that bring demise amongst the dead
but brings surprise behind beloved eyes
when words not spoke aren’t easily misread.
It’s command demanding color capture
even though the night is dark and glowing black,
and despite despotic odds to rapture
near closing doors and teary callings back.
   A dream is but a dream when nothing’s done,
   but something’s more than sum of one plus one.