I sit and dream, on better days,
when the grit and sweat of life abates,
for a moment, for a day. Dreaming I lose
myself in fantasys, love and laughter, they
comingling, with the dark and the dying and
the twisted boughs in the forest under shade.
I love, in days of peace and dreaming, to brew
a *** of peppermint tea, and bringing it up
to my place of seclusion, up among the rafters,
Sit me down and breath the sharpness and the spice
into me, way down deep, and let it turn my dreams
to twisted imaginings, all hued in red and white and green.
They say I'm delusional, when I speak of the things
of my dreaming. They call me antisocial. They are
right. They call me different and strange and freak.
They are right. I know it's wrong, and it justifies all
that they say. I know. But it just gives me a thrill to
watch them froth with rage, the madness in their eyes,
The spittle quivering, hanging from their writhing lips
as they mouth their hatred, in gruesome obscenities.
It makes me laugh a little, inside.
And then I turn and walk away, bored of their hate,
and continue on my way, dreaming, already dreaming,
as I continue on my way.
An experiment, perhaps gone wrong.
