Mocking the steady running of the hour.

There exists within the eternal mind
A place where dreamers rest,
I have known and walked with those dreamers,
Long before we were put to the test.
Now withered arms reach out to the sky,
And old men walk shorelines dark,
Something somewhere listens,
And gives my hope a spark.

(At this point in the poem I decided to stop putting it in rhyme, because my friend Richard prefers me to do unrhymed stuff. So basically what I’m saying is this: ‘There are a lot of shitbags in the world and we should ignore them and get on with our dream. Angels long ago told this tale to Blake and Sigmund Freud, but Freud got upset and went home annoyed,’ < (Sorry slipped into rhyme again). My friend ‘Moondust,’ (Herbert Moonslot) would say that this poem is in the category of, ‘Delusionary Neptune with Alligators in the strongholds of Sir Galahad’)

He was an educated man but preferred the science of umbrellas.

So let that be the end of it,
my boat is still afloat,
and with all the dreamers,
still I walk,
that wafer thin,
tight rope.

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