She Sang Dreams

I was there the night
she sang dreams,

watching quietly
when eternity answered
her call,
shadows kneeled in
reverence
and all sound
deferred to her voice.

She smelled of smiles
sensed in a dark room.

When dawn echoed
through the trees
life became a veil
dancing with the wind,
a whisper I could
taste as she brushed
my face.

I was there the night
she sang dreams.

.

.

Tonight at dVerse Victoria ask for a poem
which plays with mixed up senses.

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16 Comments

Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

16 responses to “She Sang Dreams

  1. Mark, I like how book-ended this poem. It has a dreamy quality to it. And “she smelled of smiles”, well, that is delicious.

    Pamela

  2. she smelled of smiles…ha…i like that…almost as if happiness could have a scent…dawns echo is another cool one…and sings dreams…reminds me of a sci fi book i read growing up about a dream singer…cool write mark…

  3. Just love the whisper you could taste, and singing dreams…very whimsical. 🙂

  4. This is beautiful, Mark. I especially like this:

    “shadows kneeled in
    reverence”

  5. i like she smelled of smiles

  6. This is such a beautiful use of synesthesia, Mark. I love the gentleness and softness of the effect.

  7. i was wondering if this was about death…think because of eternity answering…either way…moved me deeply..

  8. She smelled of smiles and sang dreams. Lovely. Smelling of smiles puts a smile on my face. Excellent write. -Mike

  9. very beautiful and gentle!

  10. singing the dreams and smelling the smiles … wonderful, dreamy and fillesn with happiness. Thank you 🙂

  11. singing dreams…beautiful!

  12. This is just really good. I can’t say exactly why, except, its pure and simple. Thanks.

  13. As others have commented, “smelling the smiles” is just wonderful.

  14. ..ah, this is quite sad… a song of departure from one who will never come back… sigh… now i was blown away by the amout of pain you put here… smiles… one of my fave take to this prompt…

  15. You did this so beautifully. Just exquisite.

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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