Dreams can be crippling things.
They wear you out with wondering;
they woo you with their wasting.

I wander through the Scottish streets
still seething with morning memories
of things undone,
faces unmet, places
Wars between worlds
that are not, have been battled
on the surfaces of my brain.
A friend is wed; a storm falls upon my hair;
I wind my way through the labyrinth
of countless haunted homes,
the twining chords of my cortex.

All the while, chapels,
statues and castles,
tower above me,
why I fail to look up.

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