My Perfect Poem
My perfect poem is yet to be penned.
It sits upon my thoughts with an open end.
It mounts up upon a fleeting steed
and races through my dreams at full speed.
It gallops over my bed on lofted hooves
or drifts with the clouds in lethargic moves.
It lives beyond the horizon as far as I can see.
It laughs at my imperfections and my futility.
It lives in a secret palace with its pompous friends,
socializing in exclusive groups as it surely blends.
It offers fragments of deep thoughts at times
but keeps to itself the most enchanting rhymes.
It hovers nearby but yet still beyond my grasp.
I can see its esoteric eyes through its velvet mask.
I can see its strange vibrations coming to my ears
but not penetrating my soul and what it hears.
I can hear its voices calling to the wind and rain
but not to me of poetic pride and acquired vain.
It is yet still swirling around my bed at night;
then disappearing at the first crack of light.
It dances in my vivid dreams but not with me.
It flaunts its beauty from my earnest plea.
It is an enchantress coming to me I believe
bringing my poem or for me to be deceived.
She is of perfect form and perfect composition,
rising up from the rousing storms of demolition,
and sitting on a rainbow dressed in all her finery
and from inside her the most exhilarating story;
if she would only stay with me to write my poem,
if she would only sit still while never yet to roam.
if she would tell her dreams to the ear of my heart,
if she would ever... How wonderful that would be.
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