Fantasy and Memory

are mostly the same.
They occupy space
inside my head.
In fantasy I chase
a dream instead
of an event.

But they whip up
the same feelings,
don’t they?
My dealings
of them
lead me astray
either way.

I called your name in my sleep
Not because I knew you were there
Because I knew if you heard me
You would come

We dip them in thought
In reverie
See them as marks on a page
In dark, in our sleep
Carved in stone
Hung on the walls
Out in the streets
Close and afar
They comfort
They wound
They evoke
They’ve brought many to ruin
From one careless stroke
They’re works of art
In all languages
In different classes
Some are spares
Some profound
Some pithy
Some glib
Some ancient
Others more modern
Everywhere we live
words

It telepathically
connects.
It levitates.
Each one has
their own encounter
rising from the ashes.  
This isn’t meant to be
laid to rest,
somewhere
in the earth,
with a stone.
Keep it
as a diary
in your bedroom drawer.
Water it
as a blooming flower.
Air it out
once a day.
Take it
for a walk.
Sit with it.
Prune it,
if it’s overgrown.
Tend to it;
it will attend to you.
Pass it on;
it will live forever
in hearts
who endeavor
its genius.

You and I
are enclosed
in a glass bubble.
It’s bullet-proof.

Nothing can enter it.
It’s impenetrable to harm.
Even when harm attempts
to enter it’s as the wind outside.

We hear it.
We see it blow everything around.
We see it knock down anything
that’s not fixed.

Yet it can never enter -  
This
The only thing that can break it is
our fist

It’s only a thought
An idea
It’s only a dream
A fantasy
It’s only a notion
Written on paper
It’s only a plan I devised
And it’s improvised
It’s only the beginning
A start
Nothing has happened
It’s only the first attempt
That failed
It’s only the second one, third and so on
Surprised?
It’s only a thought
Revised