On Why I Fantasize

I've never been able to get the sadness of the clouds outside my
system;
They work on me, in tones like Portuguese,
Lost remnants of uncompromised eternities
Unwashed by the brittlest of tides,
Standing clean and golden, not like these fabulous hillsides,
Consolation prizes for what must remain unremembered
And unclaimed, so we can continue to regale the marginalia,
The panglossia of unresolved song resolved too soon.