He Never Kissed Me

he never kissed me,
not when i stole the child and ran,
the halls so long,
as they always are in dreams,
the doors, many,
when he found me, he would take the child,
except for my plaintive wails and demanding tones,
how i begged,
please let me have the child,
i could weep now remembering my desire while i held his son,
my son too, if he would let me "have" him,
he was a god, this man,
of that i have no doubt,
and i am haunted by his behaviour,
his question, his demand,
"would you have my son?"
he spoke to me with disdain,
disbelief, disregard,
"would you have him?"
because i was no goddess in this dream,
and am no goddess now,
just a woman,
but also a mother,
and i would have his son,
that precious child i held and clasped so tightly in the dream,
i would bring to life in the waking world,
if he would let me,
it seemed i realized his power,
his ability to bend the world
to his will,
i realized i could no more run from him
than from the beat of my heart,
the breath i needed to survive,
he was the one i had to convince,
and the look in his burning eyes,
eyes with no pupils, no iris, no gaze,
just all fire,
they told me he could be convinced,
would be,
if i begged and groveled enough before him,
i held his son to my heart,
i begged him to let this child be my son,
and though the dream is gone,
i am still begging, somewhere in my soul,
in my subconscious i hear myself pleading,
still weeping,
trying to convince this god of my dreams,
this man of power who chased me through rooms and doors and halls,
just for the child,
to have the child,
and he never kissed me,
he said yes, but didn't believe i meant my words,
he said yes and i should receive his son,
but he never kissed me,
this god with the burning eyes,
i see him and tremble when i think of him,
he against the sunset sky that blazed like sun-fire,
some strange hot wind blowing his golden hair against and around his face,
he never kissed me,
yet i'm sure he said yes...