I DREAM IN POETRY

 

When day is done, and night time comes,

thoughts, disjointed, anointed with visions

appear from I don’t know where.

But there’s the rub,

when muse is sought In light of day,

I find little to convey.

 

Yet, when bed beckons, ablutions disposed,

fractured prose finds me unexpectedly, as

evening recollection of rigged election

competes with mindless massacre

of children in Manchester,

and West Bank abomination.

 

Where dose Art end, and life begin?

When I in my reverie, bring rhyme and juxtaposition

to inner voices;

transforming menace into poetry,

‘till memory of Grenfell Tower immolation

startles me awake,

and I feel their pain.