"The Poet's Work is but fantasy"

@Uootem

I often sit permeated with thought,
my notebook of half finished poems
balanced on my lap,
held in place by an impatient pen
here I weave another idyllic vision...
into completion.

a kaleidoscope of childhood images -
prismatic in today's light.
a synthesis of hope-filled illumination...
that time has forgotten but in silhouette
the sporadic runnel of remnant dialogue
ancient lands have sound in assimilated echoes,
infused with the anabolism of longing and regret
like into a varied-colored collage retrospection of you and I,
time's count numberless and obscure to my thoughts.

first love is the vindicator,
savior of my picturesque imagination
where I can journey to places once known
unfettered by the chains of my dungeon
in this present day... such a heartless world
where beginnings are but endings revealed
of the calamitous loss of her love,
bent upon the subtle destruction of my spirit.

it was here that memories creep unconsciously,
but assiduously into my world of martyrdom,
none brave and bold... weakened by the forfeiture of faith.

here I remember a time when hearts were not betrayed...
until the threads of future hopes were torn,
unravelling with the losing of your passioned promises,
edges all frayed... like this poetry written but not shared,

secure no more, I fall into this insanity of remembering.
My heart joining the dead for entombment
in the restless prison of another long ago time...
an establishment containing the 'us' we were,
before our youthful and loving gazes began their wavering.

writing poetry such as this, my mind no longer aware
or restrained by the rational hell of self-confession;
no more is the need to care about realities.
but fragile are my dreams, cracked like a mirror of images...
my forever dream of love renewal shattered...
and I can not find all the fragments necessary
to put us together again... so I write in fantasy.