Sometimes at dead of night she calls
Echoing down corridors of dreams,
Lost at the crossroad in another land
Tumbling in confusion.
Her plaintive crying sinks in my soul
Heartbreaking sorrow and despair,
Swirling all the colours of her mind
Into distorted rainbows.
Her captive spirit longs to be set free
Its melancholy tears are pools of doubt,
Enchanted by a spell cast long ago
On some far horizon.
Each time I hear her call my spirit aches
To free itself, to fly its earthbound shell,
So with a touch to soothe the pain within
And watch her fly.
Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2011.