The hours spent in countless woven dreams,

that wont endure, the light of dawning day.

A mystery of tangled thoughts or vague ideas,

that fill our minds, while our slumber lasts.

So clear the words of story, dream or poem,

how do we lose so quickly brilliant lines,

unless we rise to quietly leave our bed

and steal away to scratch on waiting pad.

 

There under lamp or early light,

we mark the waiting page.

A wisp of dream Impaled by pencil lead.

Quick scratches, try to clasp a thought,

that wants to slide away and hide.

Teasing, a word or name that will not clear

the foggy mire of minds enslaved by age.

Time spent in dreaming our chance to meet the muse,

laziness the opiate of our unconscious thoughts.

 

 

David Garlick, Sidney, November, 2002