Pot Of Gold

Dreams float across my  blood red  eyes
as I awake from the Xanadu within.
I dozed off but thought I saw a jack-o-lantern 
in the haze,
shifting, elusive, strange empyreal light
from a vanishing messenger,
dashing down the field of fools gold,
how to guru alias  with scythe in hand,
amen to the weed of rigged games.
Haunted by my own  moonlight phantom,
A ghost in flight from  cromlech ruins,
begging for the sumptuous fruit of guerdon
or dame fortune.
Some hope.
But I can always dream

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