The present doesn’t go with last night’s dream.
My future rolls her eyes. Those older books
Stare at me with their hostile, angry looks
Suggesting that I’d not know what they mean.
My dragons are far kinder than they seem.
We drink fresh water from the ancient brooks.
We catch our fish with only magic hooks
And what we eat becomes our sacred theme.
It’s not that I have nothing to confess.
It’s only what I’ve done is far too small
To bother you with details should I sin.
I’m sure the bed you’ve made looks like a mess.
I’m sure you also felt that you would fall,
But here we are. And look! The morning’s in.
Linked to dVerse Poetics where Anmol is hosting with the art of confession.