…of my illusions

In the rose light of morning
there is a retreat of silence
things are transformed before my eyes
shivering leaves shrugging off the dew
just as I shake off the dreams
which always seems to me an endless pursuit
like chasing a butterfly, who, despite my search
with elegance and grace
still flies high and out of reach
wings trembling without a sound
as a lonely heart, seemingly unaware
of the constant presence of darkness
the cool brush of the night against its fragile form
these are the scarlet flowers of my illusions
and they are beautiful
sounding out of the shadows
like the mournful echoes of you
© Ann Bagnall