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Aye, the rub perhaps is this,
For dreams to come, there must be life,
Of sorts, though what man defined life
Or knows its scope or plumbs God’s poorest joke?

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[Did you hear the one about the Jewish race
God chose to be His people?

He led them out of slavery,
Promised land of milk and honey,
And still, they built a Golden Calf!
And joining far less privileged folk
Chose their traditions over Christ!
I think this is a hoot, don’t you?

You want to know why God’s “not there,”
When your own sin makes mess of life,
Consider this a cautionary tale!]
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Might death itself just be a dream,
If soul exists, and somehow shares God’s time
How could man ever know for sure?

What vanity to second guess
That God somehow’s not real,
If you are real in any sense?
Or are you truly self-made man?
A flea, on a flea, on a flea, on a flea,
On a flea, on a flea, on a flea,
On a flea, on a flea, on a flea:
And still, you claim divinity?

When man can view God’s memories
Through any telescopic lens,
And never count the stars he sees
What chance is there you played a role,
That this dream’s not vain fantasy?
Love may, in fact, reveal what is divine!
So is man just a poor player who struts
And frets his hour upon the stage?

I really must take Bard to task
Though we never hear your voice again
With mortal ears upon your death,
If God is real and you’re in Him,
There’s empathy to spare,
Your choice to choose despair,
To say that God cannot exist,
Or you know He’s not fair!

For dreams are an imagined world,
I learned this fact quite young,
Although they often disappoint
Life suffers from this too.
And some just need redreaming
It’s easy if you take this path,
There’s little reason to be blue,
Each poet chooses muse's rhyme.


Brian Johnston
January 7, 2017
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