Only poorly painted dreams.

Only glass,

Masquerading in a fancy cloth,

As something important.


The sea becomes waves,

Turning rocks into sand,

And, returning both to the sea,

Cares nothing for such abstracted finery.


A stimulus for childish imagination, yes,

But parents know treasure’s promise,

To be empty,

Its power at its peak when first found.

Whilst ice cream is now,

Its promise instantly fulfilled.


They know that imagination will grow,

Into much more than a pile,

Of broken glass discarded,

And that scars on scratched feet will heal.


Just as I know my dreams,

Will grow and change,

And live and bring warmth,

Like the silent Gulf Stream.


And Shattered pictures shatter nothing real,

And fancy cloths are ten a penny



So if you find a silk handkerchief,

Washed up upon your shore,

Enjoy it, like a child, as something pretty,

But don’t get attached to its alluring metaphor,

It is merely flotsam and you are free.



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