It’s harvest time

Time to pluck the dreams

That have ripened in my mind.


My mind’s an orchard

Bearing ideas and ideals

Bitter sweet fruits arisen

From the fertile soil

Of my childish fantasies cemetery.

Oh these fantasies

Whose slow decay

Now nurtures wild reveries!

Reveries unanchored, although born

On the same same field

That keeps me grounded.

They are the sweet fragrances

Of blossoming flowers.

The amber scents of reddening leaves.

They ride on the coalescing fumes

That leap up from distant chimneys.

They tickle and envelop me

Filling my wandering mind

With tumbling words.

Here they seed and grow

Picking vittle from the corpses

Of my childhood whims.


It’s harvest time

Time to gather my throng

Of ghosts and muses.


And compose new journeys

On my lone soul lanes.



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