The Waking Hours
 
Sleep, our climb into the upward air,
Inside silky wings that take us there,
That wrap around our earthly torsos,
With eyes that reach into our minds,
With torches that light up our insides,
That awaken the child that we still are,
Who loves to run and jump into the clouds,
And make up stories and rhymes,
The long forgotten poet that we really are,
The care free spirit that rules our hearts,
That tells us to go out and play,
That life is a playground
With no boundaries
And reality is a narrow prison
That wraps around our wings,
Still anchored to the real, the earthly real,
The slave that we have made ourselves to be,
The kind that longs for the freedom inside,
The kind that finds it in his sleeping hours.
 
As every story has to have an ending,
And all the fun enters its winding down time,
And eye lids flicker in the morning light,
While dreams are still half dreams,
Our wings half wings and arms half arms,
Reality approaches with its daily disciplines,
Its taking over and disrupting all the fun,
And all the poetry goes back into hiding,
Our waking hours bring us back to earth,
We plan our day according to
When reality becomes the slaver
And we become the slaves.
 
“I want to go back to sleep
And conjure up the child in me again.”

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Robert L. Martin
about 1 year

Thanx Nelson. I wish I could remember my dreams. I could conjure up the child in me.

Nelson D Reyes
about 1 year

I woke up to this poem and “...conjure up the child in me again...went back to sleep...”
Again I get up, smile, repeat. Yes, “we row our boat down the stream life is but a dream.”
You can’t step out of bounds in your dreams.

Like. Nicely done. Thanks Robert

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