A Poem

Something I have been working on for the last few days.

Soporific Sauce

From the depths of an early morn,
Addled ideas struggle and are born.
Through mind’s eye seen,
Muddled thought honed razor clean.
Waking dreams dance the play,
With stomping foot and clapping hand they pray.
To ghosts and whispers come and gone,
Fleeting images not latched upon.
By their prayers color’s great hue,
Changes mood once gray and blue.
Now sunlit brilliance holds full sway,
And neuronic nymphs laugh happy in the day.

By Poet’s pen these bucolic scenes are born.
Out of Poet’s heart these idyllic worlds are torn.
Now his burden lifted,
In his bed, he is sifted.
Smiling, his head he rests upon the pillow.
From the wind comes the weep of willow.