There are poets and there are dreamers
There are dreamers who dream of poets and their poems
And rewrite the poems in their dreams
They fill them in colours and breathe into them life
They can’t let go of their creators
They hang on to them in a romantic bond
The poet doesn’t even know, the poet is lost in his muse
The poet is burdened by the attention
Though flattered at times
The poet ignores and moves away
But the dreams keep coming back
For the love of dreams
That become larger than life
The dreamer clings on like a baby to its mother
Is it the dreamer or the poet or the dreams or the poetry?
Or is it just the time of this day?
The sight of birds flying weightlessly
How their existence is less governed by the laws of physics
Or would the scientists disagree?
Didn’t Newton wonder about them sitting under the apple tree?