Is she a fleeting image in a dream,
With gentle russet curls and pastel lips?
Are these infatuations what they seem,
Or pretty words produced by fingertips?
She is the shadow of my beating heart,
The echo of my otherworldly soul.
But everlasting midnight tears apart
This delicate mirage that keeps me whole.
I called to her in this unspeaking voice;
I searched the endless darkness for a trace.
And finding none, I made the only choice;
To search eternity, and find her face.
For I am not at all what I would seem.
I'm just a fleeting image in her dream.