Wednesday, May 03, 2006

A Loose Grip

If if didn't have
A white winged horse
Who with one mighty flap
Could fly from the realms of nightmares
To the land of dreams

And a great venomous serpent
Whose cold black eyes
Induce irrational terror
Like ice water in veins
And shards of glass in the softest of places

And a mutated doppleganger
Of everyone I know
Skewed to suit my selfish expectations

And a thousand
Thousand
Voices
Shouting shades
Of emotion

And a magic swan

And a singing jewel

And the fabric of the night
And day cloth
And an inexhaustible spool of yarn
Spun from the material of myth
And a loom on which to weave them

In my head
Then I'm fairly certain
I would go insane.

3 Comments:

Blogger Yes said...

Yes, we are masters of our own myth, creating our own reality.
I never could figure out why I didn't go insane--now I know!
Thanks for explaining that.
You've got a whole crowd there in your head--do they sleep at night?

8:54 PM  
Blogger TomScot said...

This is a symphony of images and rhythms - an examination of the soul, belief and disbelief. How many realms are there in all of our many lives? What have we left behind and what are we dragging along with us? Marvelously, the story unfolds in daydreams and in nightmares. We are transported like butterflies riding currents of air - always on the brink yet agile enough to make safe lankings. This poem takes me full circle.

10:03 PM  
Blogger Lee said...

Viv - no, they run through my dreams all night long!

Dad - thanks for your beautiful comment :)

12:24 AM  

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