Fantasy’s Cradle

a poem

Photo Courtesy of Author

I see colors when I close my eyes,

Blades of grass on butterflies;

Stones cut crooked by water’s wrath,

Fruit rolling down a narrow path;

Faces with names I wish not to recall,

Some I remember who gave out their all;

Scenes of passage reaping grapes on vine,

Sugar cane diced and sunk in brine;

Lampshades over saw blades gave light in heat,

As pig-men from a bear den crowd the street;

Glass cascading on a shrunken bed,

Premierships dancing atop king size head;

Ministers stalk with a task to send,

Candlesticks cooling from the bottom end;

One through twenty eight served on blue plates,

Chocolates laughing on calendar dates.

An unseen world trapped inside,

By its guidance I will abide.