Imagination

Stories.

Like breath and clouds,

such things are wist,

made of imaginary

threads that intermingle

and weave into carpets

of dreams.

But are dreams tangible?

Maybe.

If believed in,

they can be tasted,

seen, and touched,

akin to reality.

Such things are then

true and beautiful.

 

Like love and kindness,

such things come

from deep within the soul.

Brushing soft fingertips

over the mind,

a lover’s tender caress.

Still, they are here

within our being,

waiting to be found.

Longing to be put

to good use.

This is imagination.

Author's Note

You know, when I first wrote this, the poem was first before the title. I had been thinking of naming it "Stories," but I scratched that. It didn't seem to fit well. Then "Imagination" felt perfect.