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A Nonsensical Poem With A Sensory Type

Whatever happens to a dream deferred?

Does it take a step to the reference section,

Maybe hoping to step in,

To someone else's mind for a time.

Maybe it escapes like a sound,

Spellbound by someone else's dream.

And they combine,

To make soemthing new.

Or maybe the dream just hides away,

Tucked in the back of your head.

Instead of leaving it stays,

It whispers and it prays

For your attention.

Or like Langston Hughes said,

"Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore and then run."

Like an image,

Never leaves your present perception,

A clear line of scrimmage,

A cultural deception,

A preconception,

Of what it should be

In your eyes.

Maybe the dream stays behind,

A smell leftover

A stench takeover

In case your blind.

"Does it stink like rotten meat?"

Or sweat against a car seat,

Or maybe Double Delight Tea.

An acidic aroma

Left over from the colosseum in Roma.

Maybe the dream

Is on your tongue,

A taste leftover

From when you were young

"The crust and sugar

Of a syrupy sweet."

The wonderful taste

Of a candy treat,

Or maybe just sour

Like the wrong happy hour.

Maybe what happens

To a dream deferred.

It stays around,

Anchored to the ground, like a heavy load

With you.

A feeling on the dge of your grasp

That makes your hair stand on end

With a gasp.

The touch of breath

Upon your neck.

Or maybe, just maybe

The dream is in your ear.

Whispering a sound you can barely hear

Reminding you of what you were

And when you remember, or maybe you dont

The clock stops ticking,

And then it explodes.

So my advice is

Take the opportunities when they come,

Grab em and run!






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