Protean dreams

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Protean dreams
I. 

a grape-red smile carved from cheek to cheek,
and ashen splinters sunk deep
beneath the calloused hand that grips the hilt —
the fickle thud of life-blood
pounding beneath your temples
on beaches staining pink.

II. 

the spice of what you should not taste a salt 
upon your lips, her smell 
like honeyed wine upon
the alter of a deathless lust, her skin
as soft as bed-silk that
you never should have felt. 

III. 

clinging to scraps of what once had been, you float
on top then plunge beneath 
the clashing wills of what you cannot see,
the sea a roaring voice
you cannot understand
murmering dark with rage. 

---

Dawn’s rose-red fingers may not lull to sleep 
the tempest of your soul —
but hold him tight, Penelope: a month,
perhaps for years, and trust
this too will sink beneath 
the wine-dark sea of time.

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