Disembodied Pleasures Poem by Patti Masterman

There's a little man
Inside my dreams,
With a beautiful face
And delicate fingers,
Fighting wars
On most the nights;
By morning light
He barely lingers.

He has a story
He says; half true:
He begs me to make him
A real boy.
But you're a man,
I tell him again,
You're not a plaything-
Society's toy.

Only in dreams
Will he believe
He's real and not
Some half-made thing,
Some trash left out
Beside the road:
He's all the brilliance
Chaos brings.

His words disjointed,
Like wind picks up
Whatever it finds
And flings away-
Never seen again,
Till uncovered in spring,
And you don't know where;
How long it lay.

Each night he plucks
My thoughts in sleep
And arranges them
Like musical measures;
I don't know
How long he'll keep
Coming, for my
Disembodied pleasure.