Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Dreamer, or, Oscar Wilde, Poetry

Dreamer

Is not an idea but a soulless thought?
A musing, idly wondered, soon grows old.
Easily dismissed, by its creator,
A dreamer who sees more futures than foretold.

To the layman it seems that this idler’s dreams
Are more than his own life can hold.

Taken in by imagined promises made,
The follower craves ever more,
So he takes the world, imagined, untamed,
And merges it with his own thoughts.

The idea has grown, bloomed, expanded,
To beyond the poor dreamer’s recall.

The disciple is consumed completely,
His own self is lost to the thought.
For now it possesses his lifetime,
His world seems no more torpor-fraught.

And the man who created the monster,
Lies dreaming of what his mind wrought.

March 2012

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