Danny The Dreamer Boyd Poems

Why bother start when you do know the end?
Is it the hope the end could altered be?
Is it the prayer for not a stormy sea?
Is it the faith you could maintain a friend?
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In Death perhaps the thinking mind might rest:
For having held such sweet old solitude,
And drunk the finest nectar ever drawn,
Reclined in those wide open arms of earth,
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Towards what's stable we always run,
And forbid any form of change;
Yet we might miss such a mystic sun:
When good could be lying in strange!
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Can't help but leave for you within a place;
It helps me sleep to know you may again:
Be back, to hug away all hurt and pain;
Them thence, perchance, with rapture—Please! —replace.
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You took my hand and I mistook you for
A guide; in sooth you said, 'Just let it glide,
Who cares what fortune hides for us in store,
But trust and soar, and bid your mind aside.'
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I have not been not that so much in pain,
I've seen a plenty crimson mist above,
Yet ne'er did wait another rise again:
Hence missed I what I could have had much of;
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I've had my share—enough! —of hidden hints,
And got but tired of obscurity:
So now I say to hell with subtlety;
I've had my share of many shabby glints!
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At times can't help but feel too cold and tired:
From running down the same damn sullen street;
And having not e'en once—alas—aspired:
I've come to ken my home to be concrete;
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Am I addicted when I cannot get
Enough of you, although there passes not
A second when my feelings freely let:
To let you know about my haunted thought?
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Weep not, sweet dame, if only I am gone;
Which is far from a slightly likely thought,
Why, but my name at every break of dawn,
Well whisper: hence you'll claim what you've besought!
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