The Poet's Dream

Indulging in his own mind's fantasy, The poet floats, ever so gently In a thin ocean of honey Bordering on the rim of reality. The words begin to drip From the sky, and slip Past his mind where their lips Meet the soil's moist grip. They soon begin to seep And slowly journey deep Until the plant which was once asleep, Is ready for the poet to reap it. And the plant in question Consists of words and expressions That tend to leave an impression In the poet's mind and profession. But as the poet sings In his ocean of gold, He hears the bees' wings And shockingly beholds The defenders of Spring Preparing to scold His skin with their stings. He won't be growing old. And soon the Tempest arrives Preparing to partake And preparing to thrive Upon the plant, soon to break And cease to be alive And cease to be awake. The poet, unable to contrive Anything, has made a mistake: For when your imagination is extreme And your thoughts seem supreme, You will undoubtedly neglect That you are the Poet's dream.