I will not tell you of my dreams.
For those rely on what ifs and whys
and truths between our fact and fiction—
No matter how pleasant our use of diction—
have blurred the edges of our lines.
And all the colors on our page
are never what they seem!
So I will not tell you of my dreams
nor speak of wisdom born of age,
or highlight pigments on a page,
and all illusions our eyes wont see
now come together
in benediction…
Hold tight mother, don't let go!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle fat
tell us where our truth is at!
I have seen them nimble footed on the wall.
Right foot, left foot, along the wall.
Careful over crenellations—
one step, two step, don't let go!
Hold tight to imagination!
I still recall the days of youth
Scurrying along castle walls,
to hop the last and vanquish foe and fear.
Then leap with faith in what is truth
until the next shadow's cast.
Hold tight, Billy, you needn't fear...
Mommy won't let you fall.
In a child's eyes mother is all—
Hand in hand along the wall—
and I shall worry not at all!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle fat
tell us where our truth is at...
I saw a robin basking in the sun—
scorched and lifeless basking in the sun.
Splayed featherless on concrete—
And wonder of the lady bird
that he will never meet...
Tumbling into madness, we blink,
and follow the trail of fallen stars
that leads a mind to ponder
one eyed crows that bear the scar
of dreary days and ice chilled bones
that ache.
I wonder if the robin knew his fate?
There is no wound a heart can't bear
with proper preservation.
Yet we seek a callused core
and canceled reservations.
And where the dream is meant to lead
hold tight to imagination.
Six strings and six keys that turn...
I listen for the harmony attuned—
Am careful how the tension turns—
Then play a little tune
for frantic shadows cast
in darkened rooms.
Until the snap that pierces skin...
The process then begins again!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle fat
tell us where our truth is at...
I sneezed, I sneezed, and blew my thoughts away!
And such a mighty sneeze it was!
That I've lost the phrase I meant to say—
Perhaps it's better left that way.
For now I can arrange anew
and maybe just omit a few
of what I shouldn't say.
So, I will not tell you of my dreams.
Nor truths between our fact and fiction.
As all illusion the eyes wont see
now come together
in benediction...
of canceled reservations.
Copyright © 2021 by Keith E. Sparks Jr.
First Appeared In Dreamscape: Open Skies Collections 2020
Available on Amazon or as a Free Download at
Facetspoetry.wixsite.com/openskies
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