Haunted Visions

What strange visions haunt my dreams and such strange images befall my sight?

I do not know this figure who flows through my mind streams in the dead of night

Is it some vision of imagination?

Or is it Aphrodite’s visitation?

Does Venus stalk and prowl in the deepest recess of my mind?

I cannot let go,

My thoughts will not release me from the grasp of this ethereal being as I battle with myself between accepting her embrace or placing her neatly upon her shelf.

But who is she and why does she appear as she pleases before vanishing away?

Her visits, when frequent are troubling, her absence when long leaves me wanting

Who is this ghost that dares to haunt my mind?

I see her face so clear

I hear her voice so soft and feel her touch so gentle, but to tell of her appearance, I am blind

Does she know of her nighttime visits to my mental halls? Does she purposely request an audience in the castle of my subconscious?

Or is her torment unknown to her as well? Does she unwittingly linger in the forest of my mind

How I wish I knew her face

How I wish I could remember so much more than her fragile outline

Her thin blade like figure

Her full bodied form, hair that cascades and showers down her back like a stream that flows from a waterfall

Skin pale as the moon so pale it shines like ivory

Ivory. . . or porcelain

Porcelain skin that makes her seem as delicate as glass and eyes that shine like crystal

So tell me. . .

Who are you?

You who stalks, prowls, roams, and hunts in the corners of my mind

Are you the girl with flowers in her hair? The one who crossed my path and a dress of simplest black?

Or could you be she who wears only the palest of gray?

With the lightest hues of orange and yellow, like bits of the sun breaking through a stormy sky

Are you she who stands forever etched in the window poring over countless spines of books while drenched in starlight?

Or is your description held within the pages of a book as stories flow from your whispering lips, telling tales of lightning kissed fingertips

Does your name flow wordlessly from the master pianist, yet cause the very saints to burst in song from their temporary residence?

Or do you simply sit in the hallowed silence of the chapel, head bowed as you rejoice, eyes to the heavens as you weep in penance

Does ink bleed from your fingertips as you weave stories cast in snows first light and broken songs take flight?

Or does your broken mind force you to live in an anxious sea, ready and poised to die as your body loses control for one last time?

Oh how I wish I knew, but I doubt I ever will

How I wish I knew. . .

Do I haunt your dreams as well?

Is it I instead, who haunts your sacred halls like some wretched wraith?

Is my silhouette languishing in your mind like some feeble waif?

God only knows for I cannot say

I wonder, shall we ever meet in light of day?

Or must I simply pine? Never knowing what it is to call you mine. . .

How I wish to set you free, but how I crave what could possibly never be

So until these maddening dreams take flight,

I shall await your return some restless night