Author: Mark Spencer
The nature of reality
Is not what flows through poetry.
A poem sings of fantasy,
In search of synchronicity.
Reality does not belong,
It canít be wrapped up in a song.
It gives no comfort to the throng,
It's contributions are all wrong!
And so we write of singing frogs,
That make their homes in hollow logs.
We write of butterflies and dogs,
Who frolic in the fields and bogs.
We write a romantic refrain,
Of paddle boats along the Seine,
Erotic moments on a train,
Or long slow kisses in the rain.
Whimsy is the lyrical way,
Imagination on display.
We shape our words like sculpted clay,
And paint our scenes like Claude Monet.
And poetry is what we choose,
A melody that shapes our views,
We canít feel realityís bruise,
When we escape into our muse.
And we find synchronicity,
Within the poemís fantasy.
Thereís freedom in the poetry,
And THAT is our reality.
Comments on this poem/writing:
|Meri (18.104.22.168) -- Wednesday, March 28 2012, 07:17 pm|
You're right. We love escaping to our safe haven away from the real world. It's easy to see things as real in our fantasy too. The imagination is something. Very powerful.
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