I got lost in your illusion
of who you thought I was supposed
to be, despite my insistence
that I was just somebody else,
who had found my way to your woods.
We marveled at the mosaics,
the magic of the autumn leaves,
watched them fall on us like feathers.
Although it was so natural,
that we no longer longed for love,
intimacy began to chafe,
rubbing against intangibles
impinging on reality.
When you woke up from your dreaming,
you left our sacred hollow as
I continued to dream your dream.
Now, when I try to wake myself up
and go looking for your footprints
to lead me out of this quagmire,
I can only find mere traces,
feathers that you left behind you,
fall languidly in your dreaming.
They have no intention of me
eventually finding you.
I made the feathers my pillow.
I clung to them in your dreaming,
but then squeezed them much too tightly.
As my pillow burst, they scattered,
the feathers soon carried away,
and I remain forever lost
wandering in your illusion.

M. Zane McClellan

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