Dreams of if and maybe

Head hanging, searching;
Like the discontent
of an ever-scribbling poet;
Hunting to cease his fustration.

She appeared to me almost human.
As a God packed in skin.
The shaded thorn on the
unsuspected bramble
that penetrates my hyde,
and probes at my senses.
She left me open and vulnerable,
a fool to be made if she likes;
but my stare was a waste,
she'd flitted through streets
like the scarab riding fear.
Through the crowd's and swallowed
by the apathetic sands.

My own mind deceives me.
Doubting the paper wall between
reality, and playful conscious.
I take it as a dream,
for she's swallowed by the sands;
but waiting in the back
of this trying poets skull:
Are dreams of if and maybe,
and the memory of the mirage.