Tales of the heart

Sometimes, 
in the dying embers
of the day, I pick up dreams
somebody left behind 
on a hasty flight 
towards the shadows 
of the night.

I feel their essence
and turn their evanescence 
into eternal glittering fireflies.
And so my heart is alive,
quivering in places 
that only bold bygones
have dared to be.
Or remotely aspired to be.
Revealing them to you
now would only pluck 
the power off their mystery.

The heart has reasons 
and causes it dares not tell:
some lead to Paradise, 
while others seem a constant Hell.