My Immortals

I was a dreamer, I was born one,
Not that I had a choice in the matter,
Nor there was anything to be done.


And oh! How I dreamed!
Fancy seeing a face so red,
So flushed that it beamed.


I dreamt of beauty, I dreamt of dreams,
I dreamt of all that is good, is God,
I dreamt of savouring the cream of creams.


Dreams that remain unspoken,
Like a Dove's wings,
That stretch only to be broken.


And foolish me! I thought,
My dreams, my immortals will survive,
Beyond my life, beyond this drought.


I tried to write them down,
On a piece of paper,
Old, withered and light brown.


But each time I made a scratch,
The ink spread,
It left a dark, wet, messy patch.


And each time I cast a letter,
Each time I finished a line,
Disappear they did beneath the paper.


Finally when I was done,
It looked a wondrous mess of things,
It looked as though I had come undone.


My own dreams I could read no more,
They seemed as though they were lost,
Like some long forgotten folk 'n' lore.


I was vexed by such illusion,
Haggard, hassled I sat,
My dreams! Were they but confusion?


And then suddenly the West wind blew,
My paper turned, it flew,
Underneath I saw a view, a mystic hue.


All the poetry was now gone,
But the ink had seeped through,
And it gave me reason not to moan.


For my dreams had not failed their duty,
My immortals were now dead,
But the shadow they'd left….. was Beauty.