Realism is a distant, flickering star.
I know not what the tastes of reality are.
Some will share this glimmering sky with me,
and to them, fortunate enough to see
a surrealist, star-blanketed day-sky.
I abide by the lonely confines of the only home I ever knew,
only filled with the memories of the frigid blue.
Ricocheting off the cold, cement walls was a long-ago dream,
in a cellar where rays of daylight never beam.
Rebirthing aromas of the pale-violet lilacs beyond my ajared cellar window.
I dwelled with eccentricity and a weary heart
in that cursed childhood where things fell apart.
On that well-trodden, poetically stained footpath,
no contentment to this memory’s past.
My bedroom door was the threshold between surrealism and realism.
We are the realist folk with subconsciously driven minds,
and with our poetic vernacular, a dream glides.
With our pens as wings and with mouths we sing.
And yet, the realists look at all our dreams as an unrealistic thing!
Regimented and marching
to the poetic tune.
