not even dawn yet and there they go again those conversations between the two of us that won’t ever happen the ones where i get to tell my side of the story oh that’s not the fantasy the real unbelievable bit is that you actually listened in the dream
no winning numbers
but go ahead and place a bet
every now and then
the house casts out some cash chum
to lure and trap target fish
hooking minds on fantasy
i asked aunt bea about a poem i had just written about offertories she made a sly smile and said words on the page are just that words but when the reader makes them their own they come alive weaving dreams fears and hopes into the fabric of their day it ‘s their fabric covering the exposed skin of their being removing that layer of fantasy and protection would make them emotionally nude and child that’s something at my age you don’t want to see
just out of reach of your sanity you will find the truth it’s lying there between consciousness and death in the corner where you’re afraid to go oh you’ve known where it was known what it was the fruit of knowledge but you’ve elected to ignore it afraid to take a bite afraid of the sight that the truth would bring so you hold on tight to your fig leaf of fantasy
the sounds of the day
faded into footsteps
along a leaf covered path
each step marking
a memory to be forgotten
a love
now gone
a child
disowned
a death
all too soon
a pain
lingering too long
each step
weighing more
than the last
somewhere
along this path
was buried a dream
a childhood fantasy
that love
could
and
would
cure all evil
but that died
long ago
now only
a poem
marks
its grave
if a blind man
told you what he saw
would you listen
or think him to be a fool
for what can he see
the sound of your voice in fear
fear that paralyzes your dreams
the pain hiding in you soul
that you must deny
for you’re expected to be strong
the hope you’ve stored away
that life really isn’t this way
the fragments of respect
left from selling your soul
to the highest bidder
just to caress your fantasy
mass-produced by wall street
if he ran his fingers along your lips
would he feel the twitch
of the fibers of your soul
beneath the red gloss
you use to hide
the ice blue colors of your hopes
would you dare to let him touch
your breast
run his fingers
along the lines of your lies
feeling the arrhythmic pounding
of your heart
as he exposes
what the eye
cannot see
Read Between the Minds 