Going to Bed to Not Quite Dream

Back when one was still one,
and two before three,
when I met circumstance with whatever was seen,

My face was serene
with improper inflection,
My fears were infection
but I still had direction.

Back then, rhymes I loved
but couldn’t create,
Now, their sheer overuse, I hate.

And yes, I love irony, too.

First guess was best, just second to test
if, really and truly,
Mothers need rest.

I still prod at rules,
For the curious linger,
And wouldn’t you know it, I’m still not a singer!

I first felt the rush,
then they told me to hush.

First guess was best, and
I dare not test
that little mind that lied awake,
Conjurations soon to take, him
Through a childhood set apart.
Beauty held in unhoned art.

Back when machinations were best served with cheese
and big ostracized ostriches set the breeze
in motion, never looking back.

Lying still, he always had
A not quite dreamlike train of thought,
Fictitious people, stolen and wrought
with the personalities he bestowed,
And all to him, it seemed they owed
in granting them leave from the tv screen.

If for only as long as he could stay awake.

The shows were previews to his sight,
And the visions mere trailers for his dreams at night!
Imagination he had, no doubt.
And he grew to wish he were without.

Where he used to see, through naivety,
The greatest joys life withheld,
Yet approaching understanding,
All the hopes he sees lean shelved.

Finally the rush,
and the end if hushed.