Feint Whispers

Small, small the world in which he lives

is but real and all of that, is, his

in the endless fathom of imagination

he expands far past the pagination

of each daily, daily, day

having now for ever lost his way

 

With his net of notes and some steam

he catches feint whispers of a dream

what people make of them he cannot say

for each reads in their own and special way

a fragment here a fragrance there

something personal of a nuance in the air

 

The sprites of a moonless sky

join with him to question why

no bridge, no tunnel

a spider’s empty funnel

a vast chasm between

reality and the dream

 

The ghouls of ere long gone

may yet hark a forlorn song

not for real ears does he type

but makes quays from all the hype

noisome noises pass nightly shivering

in his mind left, most often, quivering

 

Strolling avenues of birch and lime

dressed armoured and lost far back in time

where both the gallant and the gay

have long, long since, had their day

the simple madman, foolish, fool

uses pretty words as his empty tool

 

To take any as a truth so told

would make a mistake oft done of old

he dreams way too far for sense

and none of it in the present tense

his legacy has to it no substance

and devoid it is of a sustenance

 

A man cannot eat dreams is said

as they strap him tight to his bed

the nurse then comes with sweets

for soft and relaxing between the sheets

open wide and please no messing

take this offering, with our blessing

 

The simple madman, foolish, fool

uses pretty words as his empty tool

what people make of them he cannot say

for each reads in their own and special way

half past nine is what the clock does speak

and now to end another year long week  

 

Small, small the world in which he lives

is but real and all of that is his

a nimble nimbus cloud which flees

as he looks up high from on his knees

and there is the only place he is free

but its not real to you, or even, me

 

 

Imagine a world without imagination

where only dull is the leaden bread

to snack on until our Spirit’s dead

 

Imagine that and you too might become a dreamer.