March 28, 2002

The scent of a dream

Is the devil’s scheme

Says the preacher, who hides in his pulpit

It can feed your body the peaches and cream

But, your soul will not mea culpit

. . . . .

Now, the words of a man

Will forsake when they can

Make away with his best of intention

And, the pain in his heart

Will awake, with a start

The alarm that he sets for his pension

. . . .

Yet, we breathe while we sleep

And, our treasures we keep

And, hope rends the preacher asunder

When we meet in a dream

We are what we seem

And, we know, then, the true breadth of wonder.

. . . .

We transcend time and space

And, belong in the place

That defines who we need to be

The preacher expired

To the dream, I aspired

When I looked, and you looked back at me.

~~~~~~~

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

4/28/02

all rights. Thanks.