Cry From Mid-Space
God damned you, Dreams, whore no more to me, release me
To covet grayness bleating from a sullen sky .
Don't show me violets pure nor roses gay that cry
My inter soul awake . No ! I must not think free .
Chain my mind, please stem that emotion swell
Within this hide so I do not hope in vain .
In image of his maker man can train
As oxen yoked to circle round the well .
I can not define mid- space where dreamers dwell ,
Far sight a scene then slowly squint it into
Mental pictures , like a frosted pane looked through ,
Is it real ? Is it heaven ? Is it, well is it, hell ?
Theater must be a hell for a lost dreamer's soul :
Not in dance around soothing flames and crackling sounds
That flow the senses' veins ; but of grey ash mounds
Staged of choking soot waiting to fill a dreamer's hole .
Accept the young, they have not traversed the gorge
Left by dreamers old whose torrent thoughts erode .
Fill the young with placid manna lest they explode
With alien notions thinking they're their own Saint George .
Dreams - damn you ! Lay not your head on my breast this day .
Free me, so I may see what our Nation antes up :
Those dull, brow bent cast of actors who hold the cup,
Which keeps America hostage and wastes a dreamer's play .
Ronald C . Downie