Was it a mystery magician or
con artist, the evil one,
who managed to deprive me of my freedom;
usurp my own free will;
transport me where I never want to go.
And then, somehow it dawned on me that I,
apropos my own illusion,
had written words that weren’t exactly true?
I’m not sure how this is…
But missive written. For poets. How to write!
The anti-hero in my fated dream
insisted I capitulate
and turn my trade to more constructive ends
by which it sought the truth
of why I wish to make my dreams come true.
It asked me who I thought I was and then,
without so much as by
your leave, it pulled me back into oblivion.
It also didn’t hear me
when my stentorian protest made no sound.
It was a vision; a reverie that spoke
of fantasies; woolgathering.
It is, in truth, as truth is meant to be
none other than my conscience,
speaking of the will to write and dream.
If answer there is one, I do not know;
so often out of our control.
The only thing I have to say is this:
it’s always up to you.
Only you can judge what’s best … for you.
By your own best devices, you don’t need
to take advice from where
there is no guidance better than your own
… save rules, and even they
can be ignored once you have mastered them.
[This poem combines the subjects of a dream I had three years ago. The dream left me with a strong impression of a magician with magical, but not particularly benign powers and quite possibly a conspiracy that threatens the world of future times. I have written a synopsis of it in my notes on future project ideas, because I had strong feelings that it would make a fantastic storyline for a Sci-Fi novel, but, more than this I cannot tell; you’ll have to wait to see if this particular dream comes true. ]
© 2012, poem, John Anstie, All rights reserved; fractal image courtesy of Sharon Apted, Public Domain Pictures.net