Dreams of dust

The woods are dark beneath a veil of mist.
The light, the warm and noble light, of dreams
that lit the way where no worn paths exist
is gone. The light was never what it seemed.
I grieve the death of dreams almost the way
I mourn the death and loss of those held dear.
Dreams, too, it seems, are naught but dust and clay
to be released when the light’s no longer here.