This hand in front of my face is real
… unless this hand caresses dreams
Waving languidly at lovers setting sail
In hazy horizons abandoned by tomorrows… never realized
…forever idealized
This ache in my chest is real …
Unless uselessly longing for something never meant to be
The proverbial “gypsy proverb” realized into unreality
… wishing too hard for a "thing”
“It” turning out to have a nasty sting
... African bees of desire
Paintings on gallery walls reflect realism ...
At least as seen through eyes of madmen
...or innovated via plain old skullduggery ... colour, light and shadows run deep
...genius is a wild card ... the poetic … often prophetic fifth ace
Slipped unsuspectedly ... into the deck … vision and purpose
Running neck and neck
We try to make sense of it all because …
Everyone around us
Declares it to be ... until that pinnacle moment when an
Uncensored innocent cries out
"It wears no clothes!” and suddenly
We're forever afraid of honey bees and reality seems full of shit subject to subjectivities ...
My words are real…
As a whole we identify with every phrase written
… and yet … reality cannot dispel our dreams
Our dreams are steamships making passage through dark nights of the soul
Insubstantalisms carefully threading their way through massive icebergs of realisms 90% unseen
... fuelling endless possibilities
... and so we dream
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