Dear Dreams, Dear Diary

If dreams are music penned by the mind,
then surely to no phrase shall I be blind;
yet a haze embraced my theatre at dawn,
for a ballade from Chopin when the curtains are drawn.

Both strangers and friends this house shall shade,
from the harsh torrents of a gushing land;
 as the fleeting quavers pour forth, and fade,
my boat arrives at daylight’s strand.

I miss you, Fryderyk; and the Parisian streets,
the passing years of our nonexistent youth;
your songs again my passions freed,
though true is winter to our unspoken ruth.

There is none to whom I can cry,
for solitude is our celestial fate;
let the seasons mark my artful demise,
for love alone through life I wade.