My head is like the workshop
of a Victorian watchmaker.
Unwanted ideas are thrown
outside, lost forever and never
to return
Gears are constantly turning
They produce new inventions
by joining together memories
and thoughts. Their similarities
make them link together, like
several clockwork pieces moving.
Every new world, forms a book filled
with maps, legends and strange
creatures. Sometimes I sit in a old
rocking chair and listen to the crackling
furnace as I read peacefully.
And as I read, I fall asleep while the drawings
walk off the pages and the words turn into
objects, made of pale black ink. When I wake,
the workshop is gone.
And as I walk, the workshop is filled with color
and springs to life before my very eyes. Creatures
gather around me, as I am their creator and they love
me, not as a master, but as a friend. Eventually I come
across that same rocking chair and I sit down and drift
off to sleep, my hand resting on the head of a beast.
Then I awake, to the crackle of the furnace, as animals
become drawings and objects turn back to words.