Flights of Fancy
Posted: Tue Mar 23, 2004 6:14 pm
To make a full circle at this point in time- here is a poem that was the very first I posted at the 'blue' board some years ago. This is not an angry poem. 
Flights of Fancy
Silent as the calm stilly night, sleep comes gliding
To carry restless thought into the realm of dreams.
Crossing over, projections and memories launch into
Allegorical flight on dark, leathery wings.
Sweeping through the ether of the unconscious,
Mental fragments condense from wingtip to wingtip
Till these heavy laden droplets precipitate,
Onto the fanciful screen of witness.
Profound and ridiculous, these visions play out
Undigested remnants of days gone by.
A lunatic dance of heroes and rogues, all vying for
Justice in a swampland of needs and desire.
Breaking free, the psyche takes an astral leap
Out towards the stellar void, only to be recaptured
By gravity within a glass onion- slipping between the layers
To worlds within worlds within worlds.
Pursuing an elusive hand of guidance, like a moth,
Drawn to bright illuminations-
The self darts and weaves in its quest,
Towards the source of astute understanding.
Grasping at strands, the vertigo pulls one down, till
The last desperate kicks upward, racing for air.
Glimpses of meaning finally surface with waking sight,
Only to be lost as the new day rushes in.
(c) J.W.
In Dreams, Witty Owl.
Flights of Fancy
Silent as the calm stilly night, sleep comes gliding
To carry restless thought into the realm of dreams.
Crossing over, projections and memories launch into
Allegorical flight on dark, leathery wings.
Sweeping through the ether of the unconscious,
Mental fragments condense from wingtip to wingtip
Till these heavy laden droplets precipitate,
Onto the fanciful screen of witness.
Profound and ridiculous, these visions play out
Undigested remnants of days gone by.
A lunatic dance of heroes and rogues, all vying for
Justice in a swampland of needs and desire.
Breaking free, the psyche takes an astral leap
Out towards the stellar void, only to be recaptured
By gravity within a glass onion- slipping between the layers
To worlds within worlds within worlds.
Pursuing an elusive hand of guidance, like a moth,
Drawn to bright illuminations-
The self darts and weaves in its quest,
Towards the source of astute understanding.
Grasping at strands, the vertigo pulls one down, till
The last desperate kicks upward, racing for air.
Glimpses of meaning finally surface with waking sight,
Only to be lost as the new day rushes in.
(c) J.W.
In Dreams, Witty Owl.