I Was

I rise and muse from a dream
One not of you, but beginning with a waking start
Of your reception of my news,
Which can only be said and not taken,
Good or bad.

As usual the words are carefully chosen and lovingly placed,
Like a gift in a Christmas stocking, in October
Not quite a trick, just the right treat
Carefully sugared and candied like old corn
Sweet with butter dripped upon the husk
Something so uncommon.

I wonder if it is humanly possible to have such compassion
Or why my dreams taunt me with such silly questions as
Was she responsible for the change you saw?
The evil you became, in your eyes?
No of course not, I was.
I was.

Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
Contact me for reprint/posting permission.