Creative Crop from a Dream Harvest
And now I retire
to the land in my brain
with spirals and swirl,
there’s no logic, it’s insane.
My creative crop is dwindling
I must harvest some more,
with dreams of things I do not know
until I shut my eyeball’s door
(When one door closes another opens)
I open the door to my soul
and fantastic things arise,
all reason is gone from my head
as soon as I close my eyes.
When I awake
I’ll thresh the thoughts
with my ho of morals and order
and turn them into poetry and sow seeds in new plots
