Fire and brimstone I trip and I fall,
Encased in a dreamscape fervent and droll
To fathom loose ladies lost in their shawls.
They billow and flow inside of my head
Like gluttonous mountains encase the dead
To thwart progress in my lucid homestead.
Of all the crescent shaped moons to observe
This one I find to have corrosive curves,
Even in my dreamscape it puffs to learn.
Also I admire the waft of a whiff,
How does one smell as they lie so stiff?
Like rigor mortise has become my shift.
Follow that weary man I exclaim!
Is he but a droplet from this dreamy game?
To teach humility and icy shame.
Even if he is, can he even speak,
Like a slimy pink baby’s open beak
Alas goes he, here I stand at the peak.
I glance at the edge of this careless pit,
So black and jagged it yearns to submit
Me and the rest of you to call it quits.
At the end of the darkness in the dreamscape’s lair.
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Comments about this poem (Dreamscape by Owen Onion )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
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