I don't know why,
But I look in the sky,
Cheery, bleary, butterflies,

Dreams may tell tales,
But they don't blow gales,
That's why I don't take the mail,

Dreams!Dreams!
Carnations of creation,
Your motives go beyond explanation,

I try to dissect,
But I still can't connect,
You always seem to come out ahead,

Dreams! Dreams!
Evidence of hope,
You make what is mine your own,

It's known beauty never sleeps,
And you never rest,
But your complexion is spotted,
Patterned at best,

You lead me down alleys,
I wish not to go,
You lead me up mountains,
Slathered in snow,

That is the curse of prose!
The ability to slip under ones own nose,
The ability to weep for silly dreams,
The ability to question what you believe,

And then a poem hanging in the air,
How I wish I didn't care!
But twilight comes quite unfairly,
And it never comes a bit merrily,