She Always Comes in My Dreams

She always comes in my dreams at night,

With a grin that gleams like morning light,

Her voice—a song, delicate and clear,

Like winds that whisper when skies are near.

I reach for her with trembling hands,

But wake alone in noiseless lands.

She strolls through knolls my intellect has made,

Wearing stardust in her braid.

Her chuckling rings like delicate chimes,

Through the hallways of resting time.

Though I call, she doesn’t stay—

She blurs some time recently the break of day.

She’s beautiful—oh, words drop short,

A magnum opus of Heaven’s art.

Empathy in her each glance,

She mends me in a single trance.

No distress dares to frequent my rest

When her kind soul fills my chest.

She works through shadows, shinning and wise,

A brilliant sun in cloudy skies.

She’s fair, brilliant, continuously near—

Yet never genuine, and never here.

Her quiet takes off a thousand themes,

For she as it were lives interior my dreams.

Each night I supplicate the dream returns,

For sunshine brings an hurting burn.

The world is wide, however none I see

Can coordinate the beauty she gives to me.

She’s delight, she’s peace, she’s light, she’s true—

And vanishes with morning’s dew.

I wish that destiny would alter its streams,

That I may meet her past these dreams.

To talk the words I’ve held so long,

To live interior our dreamlike song.

But till that day, I rest and yearn—

For in my dreams, she might return.