I was both a hostage child and a victim of kidnapping
When dreams held me at ransom

A little quiz to conquer, a lass to call my own,
A poem to fill the pages of the New Yorker

And growing up those dreams were like medleys
That fitted one on a throne and gave her a specter

To maneuver the anatomical soldiers. The fuel driven heart
And the lust soaked body, and a water creature called a mermaid

Swimming away when I get close to her. And one day, I used
A fishing net to entice her, a net of inked verse

To take her on to my hull and still she escaped through
The netting. And love was just like that.

A long and enduring cause with little reward.
And now I search for my high in not-so-little verses

And graft them on parchments made of alabaster.
It’s the only dream alive. Like a little flower

Blooming on a graveyard of dreams. And an old man
Fertilizing the flower with organic waste.

And perhaps that flower will never wither
Or lose her petals, as she holds her poise and grace

On the peduncle of hope. And that is all I have
Hope lifting one dream, a lonely one nevertheless

And it only takes one dream to inhale and exhale
A little conversation between air sacs and capillaries

And I will ride hope bareback and be my own warrior
A wordsmith who transforms to a patternmaker

Knitting together beautiful patterns of words
With the needle of a nib.


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