I
Scattered thoughts are penned across spare bits of paper,
Or perhaps spare thoughts are penned across scattered bits of paper,
It’s difficult to say, either way,
Dreams are stacked upon a shelf like dusty old books ,
Partially unremembered,
More are hung like pictures upon a wall,
Nice to look at but unfortunately that is all,
And I recall seeing another lying about here,
Somewhere the other day,
Perhaps it was in that old trunk ,
Where you keep your childhood fancies with which you used to play,
The vague faded aroma of hope lingers in the air,
Though it has been long since such a perfume was worn here,
You glimpse bits of joy from a distance,
Like the sound of church bells that sometimes meander through your open window,
As you sip the last cold drops of inspiration from the bottom of a coffee cup,
Before reluctantly placing it in the sink with other discarded muses
Then, donning your coat of complacency
You wander into the street to visit your grave.


II
What Would You Do?
I wonder what you would do?
Would you carefully remove the dreams from the shelf,
Blow the dust from their covers and wipe the cobwebs from their bindings?
Greet them like an old friend,
Or perhaps you accept the fact that they will never be,
Place them in a cupboard,
Stacked neatly,
Lock it, lose the key,
Remove the ones hanging on the wall,
So you don’t have to think about them at all,
Or perhaps you think they are dead, so you bury them instead,
Deep in the ground, so that never again will they be seen nor found,
Tell me,
what will you do?
Will you wash those discarded muses,
Or leave them in their filth?
Will you go to the church yard to hear those bells in full,
Or promptly close your window?
Tell me,
What will you do?