Liquid gold
spirals down in
spangled drops
'
and down, to
brittle rocks
and charcoal mist
'
and sighing moon on creeping dark
'
and mumbling murmurs echoing
on crumbling walls
'
and far above
streaming light pierces
gentle, pulsing dark
'
but dream-thought stays
and twists and turns
and waken-thought it hates and spurns
'
and far past
in future back
stout gray walls are broken through
by amber glass
and liquid gold.
