They Are Smoke

They are purple smoke

shaped into crowns

with a jester to joke;

echoing trumpet sounds.

 

They are kings in plaid-shorts

queens in pink flip-flops

all taping on computers of sorts

and buying without money at shops.

 

They have visited the moon

without a jet-pack.

They think the world will end soon

but of the beginning, knowledge they lack.

 

They say the world is "their oyster"

without having seen all the land  

but of course, they have seen posters,

posters drawn by blind hand.

 

They are purple smoke

easily shaped and gone with strong wind

like dreams after you have woke

 and like dreams, in reality skinned.  

Author's Note

I'd love to hear your thoughts...

Reviews

[Prelude To A Dream]

Beautifully written, really makes you think.