To consider the distance, the ever-receding horizon.
To go on, to follow the hurtling train of your dreams.
To acknowledge the mountain, to search for the pass
despite cliffs and landslides, the bleak terrain of your dreams.
To know what you've ruined, what's torn beyond mending,
cannot be rewoven, the raveling skein of your dreams.
To have handled the knife, tested the edge of the blade,
to have bled from the jugular vein of your dreams.
To go into the wilds without map or compass,
straining after the haunted refrain of your dreams.
To scrabble for purchase, without reason or promise,
when delusions are all that remain of your dreams.
First published in Frostwriting, February, 2014
ANTONIA CLARK works as a medical writer and editor. She has taught poetry and fiction writing and is co-administrator of an online poetry forum, The Waters. She is the author of a chapbook, Smoke and Mirrors (Finishing Line Press, 2013), and a full-length poetry collection, Chameleon Moon (David Robert Books, 2014). Her poems and short stories have appeared in numerous print and electronic journals, including Anderbo, The Cortland Review, Eclectica, The Missouri Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Rattle, and Softblow. She loves French picnics and plays French café music on a sparkly purple accordion.