The Dream Exists – Take One

The Dream Exists, between reality and floating fairy tales. Where stellar poets, write alight delicate whisper wings that set sails, amid space verse vacuum; alliterating rhyme, aloft heartbeats that breath in lungs, full of life. Whence poetry has this purpose, to dwell deep within our soul’s Peace and Harmony, conchience nest.

The Dream Exists, in this recluse place, where one hibernates, amid isolated seclusion. Pure womb tomb room, dire isolation; wherein one meditates dye lone tear drip, drop water falls. Words tearing apart, worn inside out, the core conception torn in being human, being human beings. That we, as free spirited poets, atone to our verse’s journey, were humanity is put here, attuned to the earth quaking, feelings before us. We strife to save the world, from itself; that is self destructing, among hate’s infernal destruction inferno; cremating the Holocaust caste ghost wraiths, where time decomposes grave stone civilization crosses, amid a see of Star of David.

The dream exists, upon a birthing wail, exiting the matron protective womb, being set free to navigate this world passages, upon this livelong journey that rides lifetimes roller coasters, bearing learning daily experiences. Inheritance, bee the majority, for they are born pawn serfs to hide within hives, as devoted silenced worker be followers, Unless entitled to some form of privileged of class, or crass of self emulation molestation of the Eye to Eye, hear bye be One Man, or One Women, dew claim the Mountain Top dye-nasty. As they stand pious around, and upon those mortally wounded, or tossed aside, as expendable human being corks that helped once upon a time, helped elevate them, to thier  Supreme Justice Commander status, without human frailties, or concealable faults.

The dream exists, not in perfection, but within the imperfection that all humanity has built within the beginning and/or recordings hu-man evolution, upon the revolutions, there be a ticking time bomb, where upon, our politicians and leaders, translate too bee, our morticians, who see war as the final and only viable carnage solution.

The dream exists, wherein recluse settings, where Dead Poet Society, can exist in peace, within this room, womb, tomb, be a lone poet; who dost naught, feel the retribution and vilification remorse that it is “All about You,” being labeled the scorpion stinging poet. Whose sting bite, dared question Our civilian Democracy, and its Freedom Right flight of Free Speech – being denied. Being the problem for questioning pristine primordial leaders, vying for the King of The Mountain Chess pounding christening, where the pawn pieces, fall like dominoes, lining up with crosses and Star of David, upon cemetery interment of eternal piece place-mats.

THS 1966 Poet