Individuals
Who create when they are sad
Are special

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