The themes and figurines,
Of poetry and of art,
Play upon the dreams,
And by candle light depart,
Initiating hanging strings,
That leave traces in the dark,
Alleviating callous memes,
It’s meaningless completely stark.
The toys and trinket of the epoch,
Now rusted and despair,
Give way to the migrating flock,
With brutal traps that tightly ensnare.
The baubles and the jewellery,
Decorating trees and trunks,
Falderal expressions that pointlessly debunks.
For there’s ecstasy in the lunacy,
That haphazardly dips and dunks.
A trifle merely gesture,
As words become the furniture.
The fragrance in its potency,
More potent than the last,
Has lost some of it majesty,
When spending time thinking of the past.
The abstract and surreal,
Will open up the doors,
And what was once concealed,
Now delicately implores.
So there it is, driving matters forth,
And from and too,
The compass points to north,
But which direction does one go,
When imaginings move and grow?