There was a time when I was sane
when I used to walk among daffodils.
When they used to open up and sing
their unadorned song from hill to hill.

There was a time when I was sane
when the trees used to sway
and the leaves used to rustle
just to lay their flowers in my way.

When I was sane,the eagles
from their eyries,used to fly high
and block the sun with their wings.
Just so it wouldn't be in my eyes.

The clouds would come at my call.
And the rain would fall only for me.
The diamond drops would break
and bedeck the ground at my feet.

Looking at the night sky,
at the star studded lanes,
I would see the moon smile at me
and know that I was sane.

I used to create new worlds
with living words from my pen.
Full of marvels they used to be.
But that was all then...

Wrapt I was in fantasy
while the world moved on.
It has moved away from me
while,impassive,I looked on.

People said I was not sane,
told me that where I lived
there were no daffodils;
No promise in how I lived.

Now that I'm cured,I see
that I'd been but a fool
who believed Horton really lived
in the Jungle of Nool.

No magic rings in reality.
No wonderland or wicked witches.
No Elves nor dragons.
Not even Quidditch and snitches.

Now cured,I see reason.
The flowers never did sing.
Nor did any eagle fly for me.
Reason came but relief did not bring.

All those words I created,
All those worlds I cherished,
All too soon yea all too soon
All have but perished.

Now I see people toiling away
in richness,poverty and ignorance.
I see children bent with age;
In their eyes,everything but innocence.

Reluctantly now moves my pen
as I try to make new worlds.
Stringing letters together it desponds.
As lacking life,they are but words.

Everything used to be wonderful
when I knew I was sane.
Now that I've seen reality,
I know I must be insane.

Two and thirty is the ploughman.
He's a man of gallant inches,
And his hair is close and curly,
And his beard;
But his face is wan and sunken,
And his eyes are large and brilliant,
And his shoulder-blades are sharp,
And his knees.

He is weak of wits, religious,
Full of sentiment and yearning,
Gentle, faded--with a cough
And a snore.
When his wife (who was a widow,
And is many years his elder)
Fails to write, and that is always,
He desponds.

Let his melancholy wander,
And he'll tell you pretty stories
Of the women that have wooed him
Long ago;
Or he'll sing of bonnie lasses
Keeping sheep among the heather,
With a crackling, hackling click
In his voice.

You can listen with hope,
  or listen in pain

But listen you shall,
  as my words will explain

“You were left in a tree trunk,
  neither hollow nor full

With a decision impending,
  a test of your will

Your words will define,
  what you praise or deny

Will they now come together,
  in the truth or a lie
  
Do you burrow on blindly,
  or tunnel beyond

What your comfort will dictate,
  what the blackness desponds

One choice lands in darkness,
  one reaches for light

My tracks through the shadows,
  your fear cannot light

It’s down to that moment,
  one last choice that defines

Will your soul choose redemption,
—or stay hidden unrhymed”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)