Saturday Night

The Modern Man exits to the stage left,
Out the front door, feeling almost bereft
Of hopes, of dreams, of ivory towers
With nightingales a-chirping in the bowers
And dragons fiery and knights in armour
And sights that make you feel ever calmer
And all the chivalry of Camelot,
And all the people who care not one jot.

Bereft, we say, the Modern Dreamer felt;
Yet he takes all this with a pinch of salt.
He dreams compulsively, ‘tis said, for he
Must just do so; he cannot stop reality
By making frozen angels in the snow.

No: he knows he must build his world up high;
So he goes downtown; bars, clubs, and pub golf.
That twinkle starts to light up in his eye
As he knocks back with gusto every half...

Later, later; how much later?


Stagger on the pavement. Seeking refuge.
Streetlights blurry, mind a flooding deluge
Of emotion. When did it creak? When did
It crack? I’m still chasing dreams, as I bid
More emotional capital to Fate:

I reach out, across the networks, late,
For the whisper of my dream.

View fhmc's Full Portfolio