"Our indiscretion sometimes serve us well, when our dear plots do pall..."
- Hamlet, 5.2.7, Shakespeare.
“The dawn has descended upon us,” said the Elder,
"Let us hurry, or be hunted
Let us conjecture, or be battered
Let us herald, or be outwitted."
The little girl, inebriated in the beauty of the words,
Is lost in an ineluctable void.
Not a dream, not a nightmare.
The panoply of the setting sun
A Subliminal enticement
An Enervate mind
The poke, the stirring
The unavoidable voice from within..
Mendacious..
The lost one is lost again
The discovered one is extinct
The unfathomable is ethereal
Out came the menorah
Of realization.
Not a dream, not a nightmare.
The harlot smiled,
The moonstruck man laughed,
The ineligible bride rejoiced,
And the enlightened, jocund.
Not a dream, not a nightmare.
The girl stood.
A jiffy, jeopardized with happiness.
Blossomed and faded,
Blossomed and faded,
Enshrined and faded,
Captured and faded,
Faded and faded.
Blasé. Blemished.
Not a dream, not a nightmare...
