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.

Copyright © Gael Attal | Year Posted 2009

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