Even Dreams Wax Poetic

Sleepy thoughts border on verse

and hang like an unfinished sonnet

on torn and timeworn parchment.

Rhyme plays about

romping through slumbering eyes

and tickles the inside of my lids.

In the land where sandman reigns,

inky rivers flow continuous,

snaking in scripted currents.

And it is there, upon river I sit,

huddled inside a concocted raft,

a solitary quill, my oar of navigation.

With slow and purposeful strokes,

I make my way along each journey,

mentally charting my course.

The breezes of idea move me along

in lackadaisical motions

as I hone in upon my craft.

I become one with the rise and fall of tides

in a place where even in repose,

dreams wax poetic.

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