Imagination As Tragedy Poem by David Welch

Imagination As Tragedy

I met her on a towering cruise ship,
the Benthic Princess, a vacation trip.
Her platinum hair shimmered in waves,
a beckoning smile that asked me to stay…
That first dinner was quite magnificent,
we talked and talked, like life-long friends,
then we danced with others in a grand ball,
so enrapt, I barely noticed midnight's call.
When the clock chimed, she took my hand,
led me to her cabin on the aft end,
the taste of her kisses played with my head,
we stumbled backwards, fell down to the bed…

Then I awake, in the dark and the gloom,
surrounded by the shadows of my bedroom,
the glow of it fades as my mind retrieves
the true memory of my time on the sea.
It was six months ago when I saw her,
I bought her a drink and we conversed,
it was a bit forced, somewhat constrained,
awkward chit-chat about both of our days.
She looked like an angel, but was fond of wine,
we danced, my foot her heels did find.
I finally gave up making a go of it,
saw her later puking over the rail of the ship.
Yet for all these months I've had this dream,
the meaning of it leaves me less than serene…

It puts me in a very tragic mood,
when my mind whips up a scene so good,
not because I don't enjoy such thoughts,
but because it muddles what is, and is not.
Imagination can dream up perfect things,
that soothe the mind and make souls sing,
it can turn lush skanks into glorious pearls,
but it can never change the rules of the world.
It sets an insane standard in the mind,
then ignores the truth, the toil, the grind…
It feels more real then what you see and touch,
but in the real world, you find no such luck.
Sometimes I think it's a tragedy,
that we can imagine what cannot be,
that we can create what the world denies,
that imagined heavens are real world lies.
Perhaps it would be simpler if it disappeared
and freed us of so many waking fears,
freed us of the desire to compare,
the dreams of mind, and what's out there.

But that is another step too far,
imagination is part of what we are,
to believe it could vanish is as insane
as trying to build a world without pain.
So I lay back down on my pillow,
with this dissonance I'll forever know,
the skank will turn to a platinum queen,
the lie will forever be haunting me…

Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: deception,imagination,introspection,philosophy,rhyme,truth
Error Success