Aren’t dreams supposed to be
The seeds of
inspiration;
To light the
fire
That leads
to the creation
Of operas, epics,
theories and symphonies?
Well, they
don’t work like that for me.
I’m in a zoo
or a park,
Walking along
a sandy trail
Towards two
shady figures,
Who are
leaving me behind.
When on the
path a bird appears
A whimbrel,
a woodcock or a rail.
Why is this
stored in my mind?
So instead of
worrying about
What this
might mean,
I prefer it
when the slate is wiped clean,
The screen is erased
And I can
wake refreshed
Remembering none
Of these
stupid dreams.
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