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| Of Dreams and Stardust Only a fool they say dares to dream of futures, Of places and things beyond our realm of grasp. And to this I reply and beg to differ, and disagree unto the last. For those who look far beyond their sight, into worlds of wonders far from here, and those that see much more than light, in skies at night where dreamers dare. As days they pass and fade to grey, the shadow dance begins again, the stars come out to point the way, to journeys far without an end. To the dreamer I say then, fare you well and hold on to your faith, for few believe the dreams as we, will come to pass one day. Copyright2002 Patrick Sloan |
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| Farthest Haven Darkened paths of stars long past, endless streams of whispered voices, timeless fields where dreams are born, with unseen trails to open doors. Reaching through the empty places, from deepest night where jewels dance, streaking spires of wonder find them, and lead them down a path of chance. The many questions of the dreamer, may here be answered if truth be told, myths of past and present's future, an idle bay of hidden gold. Copyright2002 Patrick Sloan |
| Unless otherwise stated All Poetry,Writing and Music within this Website are all under Copyright2002 Patrick Sloan and may not be used or copied in part or in full for any reason without written consent.All Rights Reserved |
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| Garden of the Moon A meandering cobblestone path stumbles before me, led to this place by dream, I dare not wait to ponder. Silence follows and fortells, yet only in whisper, forboding anticipation riding as electricity on air. Treeladen pathway dwindles out of sight, bare feet on cold stone slowly passing time. The din of lazy droplets falling into pools, trickling waters of a fountain fill my ears. Ornate archway above,gateway to where ? Time for wonder being nil, I pass into the light. Moonlight fills this secluded plateau in the trees, as only here could one truly understand her beauty. Shown on a pedestal at the center of this cove, a single marbled column holds the crescent moon. Above, pointed spires reach deep into the night, while intricate fountains play a song of welcome. A single rune is carved in the face of the moon, fingers slightly tracing that ancient design. Her suggestion of sleep now too strong to avoid, I see thousands of fireflies take to the sky. Copyright2002 Patrick Sloan |
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