Not Quite Write

As a writer of fiction novels, I positively basked in my work, Story ideas lived in my head, as blue stars at twilight lurk. Yes, I was a successful writer, and had many zealous readers, As vee shaped birds of azure skies, ever follow their leaders! My life was then so interesting, and I was doing what I loved, As sweetness of summer blooms, lingers where bees have buzzed. My office had a picture window, which overlooked lush garden, Which was frequently visited, by a richness of purple martin! As the world swayed to summer, in solemn and endless rhythm, Vividness spilt all over the land, through a mellow solar prism. After writing for hours one day, I desired to take a break, Like the sun just when he's going, bestows beauty's keepsake. While enjoying my cold drink, as I was relaxing on the porch, From the trees came a Silver Knight, carrying his golden torch! In wide eyed shock I stared, for he'd stepped out of my novel, As a mole eager for light of day, is emerging from its hovel. He came toward me all gallantry, before suddenly disappearing, As the pearly moon often does, just when the dawn is nearing! I sat and gazed at the place he'd been, not believing my eyes, As so often it is hard to credit, bounty's fantastic surprise. I had written for long years, and never had suchlike occurred, As grass if it turned cherry red, might be deemed too absurd! I sat there in bumblebee sunshine, reviewing the recent past, As nature makes of valued moments, bronzed memories that last! There were no more visions, 'til a backyard cookout one Tuesday, As friends and family reveled in, a citrine hot weather holiday! I'd just had my turn at the grill, and was resting in the shade, When along came my dragon, puffing fire, in fantastic masquerade. I knew Percival at once, for he had sauntered right off my pages, Like an ancient masterpiece, in contemporary times, still ageless. One thing I soon noticed, was that no one shared these visions, So that reality and my fantasy, avoided a tremendous collision. As silken night and golden day, meet swiftly at dusk or dawn, And only during the hours, when most people are going or gone! Much later as I was retiring, I saw a scary figure in the hall, And I knew it was the Bogeyman, familiar as the crickets' call. For what reason these fantastic visions, fine but out of place? Why had imagination come visiting, as footsteps on a staircase? In the ensuing days I saw mermaids, unicorns, fairies and more, Like a compelling urge to get out, when sunshine's at the door! The visions never faded away, and I still see them to this day. No more do they bother me-I know it's just imagination at play. And imagination is a good thing, as it brings color to our lives, As the sun gives colors to blooms, in zones where beauty thrives. But I guess my musing is different, somehow exceptionally vivid, Like the purple red hues of sunset, that make the skies so livid!