In the garden of my mind,
Fruits of fancy flourish,
ripen, and fall, baskets fill,
Until I discard my very will.
But the little men of the trees,
Dance amongst the leaves,
Tipping baskets, Picking fruits,
Slipping them into their sleeves.
Again fancy frolics forth,
Freeing fortified finites,
Breezily blowing baser ideals,
Into the garden’s heights.
And the little flowers of imagination,
Broken at the stem,
Laced in a garland,
And thrown away on a whim.
Clouds of dreams foment and foam,
Pouring torrents of terror into the trees,
Giving fright to the little men,
Frightened fancy turns and flees.
Too often, the master of the garden,
Is called by name, Fancy and Whim,
But it is beaten back, again and again,
By the sinister dreams within.