Sometimes, I wonder too much…if I wonder too much. Live life within a dream. Or, at least, a daydream.
How lucky am I? To look up, as well as, down.
As if my grievance with nature is that of anxious inspiration.
As if these walks were cheap snippets of temptation.
“You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal. Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see. When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung. Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see. When there was no strings to play, you played to me.
In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood. Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old. When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.
In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed. When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold. When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
EARL'S SPACE: "AN OPEN, BUT ALWAYS RESPECTFUL ONLINE PLATFORM TO DEBATE OPPORTUNITIES & CHALLENGES FACING THE GLOBE," CURATED BY AWARD-WINNING COLUMNIST, EARL PLANTE, AN UNFLINCHING ADVOCATE FOR SOCIAL & ECONOMIC JUSTICE