Imagination

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We build up fancies in our minds too much,

Like sonnets in a sequence, or a plot

Inside a Mills and Boon romance.  A touch

Of madness like divine ideas is caught

As if a virus takes a hold and then

We’re off!  But meanwhile actuality

Comes crashing — in mobs of raping men,

Or starts to weave with factuality

A carpet not of silk or finest thread

Producing scenes for feet to dirty; worse,

For boots with vicious cleats and filthy tread

To teach us truth.  Our dream world turns to curse.

  Our sin and passion grab the weaving, yank

    To knots and snarls — and pitch to sewage tank.

© Phillip Whidden