My Secret Imagination

There are fairies that call the verdure of my lawn home

They cry, because I don't draw their portraits.

I am their only proprietor.

Still, they frolic each evening, fireflies above them like personal stars.

Little neighborhood kids squish insects though.

There's the monumental parades that march within my synapses,

full of wild animals and aliens, they forget that I am their only admirer,

and that the rest of the crowd is just my own construction.

Still, they put on a good show for me, even though my camera must stay behind.

The film was too expensive to bring regardless.

There's a crow who lives in my notebook. His feathers are made of ink.

He bursts from my ballpoint like he sat in his egg for too long

and forgot to grow up first.

His name is Marcus Antoninus

but I am his only subject.

Still, he faithfully flutters through the pages, keeping me company,

carrying a red string in his beak.

I tend to ignore his wisdom.

There's a world out there, named Recicivus 5

but I am the only Earth visitor.

The buildings there glow on their own,

but not bright enough to be mentioned in my report.

Still, I dine with the natives, and they pass around their pets,

telling campfire stories.

I got burned last time I visited.

There's a woman who haunts my hallways,

but she bears no ill will.

I am her only lover, and the only person who knows she exists

Still, she embraces me on the coldest nights.

Even though I can't feel her anymore.

There's a superstar athlete in my driveway,

who stole my name and put it on his shirt.

But I am his only fan.

Still, he hits the game-winner for me every time.

But nobody cheers outside the faded whisper of my own two lips.

There's a man in my mirror on a stage,

made of gold silverware,

singing into a crowd of fans, short of breath.

They seem to remember the words better than he

yet I'm the only fan paying attention to the rhythm

Still, I sing along, but I forget to scribble down the chorus.

Oh well, I have bad penmanship anyways.

There's the golden poem, with incandescent cords,

written in ruby ink,

tied to a silver marmot, running through the frozen hallways

of my distant memory, hiding from me.

tucked away in the deep darkness, eluding me.

I am the only one who knows it is there.

Still, I write brown sonnets, and send them on their vermin steeds

with my supply of burlap ties.

I wonder where they go.

There's my secret imagination, locked in a ceramic chest

atop a mountain of bird cages,

inside is everything I will own

when nothing is left at the end.

I am the only one who can open the chest.

Still, I climb the tower of hovel-prisons.

with a key made of Malachite and Adamantite

Riding memories like thermals,

until I reach the pinnacle.

I hope I remember not to slip.

There's my secret imagination

My secret imagination that nobody cares about.

Full of wonders that cannot have names, for they are too outrageous.

Still, I express myself

I hope somebody reads it.