Reality Check

A man twitches

dreaming

 of going to sea in a beautiful balloon.

Is he on air?

Is he on water?

He’s not sure…

reflecting up he can see only himself.

Which way do you look when you are adrift,

 Alone,

 in a world without signs?

And who do you ask for directions?

 

A woman buys a lottery ticket,

not believing that it’s possible to win,

but keeps it safe and secret in her pocket anyway.

Is it useless?

Is there hope?

She doesn’t know,

but something has to change and there are no falling stars to capture…

We float.

We dream.

We push our fears down deep,

and plunk down two dollars for a fairy tale ending.

 

We invite dreams but water them thin with disbelief…

We wish,

we wish,

the invitation hangs there,

calling

plaintive

but if granted we swipe it with a bar code

 shrink wrap it

and plastic box it.

Or grip so tightly it strangles,

and then we shrug,

Reality check we say,

one must be practical,

sensible,

feet on the ground, head out of the clouds…

And yet somewhere there is a beautiful balloon,

floating gently across the water,

the basket swinging empty while a mermaids song goes unheard.

A fairy tale ending was never meant to assure happiness

but a wish is the most elemental of magics.

And while the weave of reality may indeed close tight around you,

like a net full of silvery fish,

one of them may have a ring…

 

©jayetomas2016

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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