A Poem: Dream, My

Dream, My – 11/13


Dreams have been defined,
Time after time, as only in the mind,
But mine...doesn't fit that mold
It's something I can have and hold
Never grab and mold, can be told...
But may not be true.
My mind roams all day,
Never moving in only one way,
But one way it ceases movement
Is when I lay my head to rest,
It works at its best, no less
To paint vivid depictions,
Featuring detailed descriptions,
Of my heart's prescriptions, but,
The prescribed has been proscribed
By every heart's scribe, the little winged-one.
He has only allowed me paintings,
For he isn't aiming, well not in my direction,
But I'm no slave to the erection,
So where is the correction, in my recollection
I deserve to at least be aimed at, no exception,
But he refuses...He uses,
Logic and epiphanies, my mind's two symphonies,
To create euphonious odes such as this I speak,
With no peek, at that which I seek, the peak
Of human feelings, these dubious dealings,
Have dealt defeat, during which I felt incomplete,
Holding onto those paintings of...the dream.
The little winged-one was no longer of use,
As the love within me became profuse,
I had a daydream, or so I thought,
I caught a glimpse of what I sought,
My first thought, was that I ought, to
Try to believe...I could not conceive...
Objects that are verisimilar are very similar,
To the realness, I feel this, can't kill this,
For it's not a chance at romance, it's a chance to go dance,
With not a care, because you there,
Are something special.
Unreal to me, unreal beauty,
Yes beautiful inside and out, there is no doubt,
You are my dream.
You came true for me, so may I come through for you.

-ATLthePoet