I dreamt about two weird things last night,
—Writing an angry poem,
—The previous family pet dog had come back to life;
Let’s address the dead poem first,
Then come back to the…
Or was it…
I’d been worrying last night,
About the idea of writing poems too gratuitously,
—If I’m going to publish them online,
What’s the point, unless they’re entertaining?
Or somehow helpful?
So I had a dream,
About writing a really gratuitous poem,
Full of anger,
Spite and revenge,
It made me feel sick…
And even in the dream,
I swiftly deleted it;
Then I dreamt about the family dog,
Who in fact still had some life in him,
In fact, it was possible,
To bring him back to life,
—To live that last part of it;
Nature hadn’t been cheated,
Because this was his intended life-span,
It was just as though his life had been on pause,
Dreams have to be scientifically realistic, too);
I was at home, alone with him,
Cuddling and playing with him,
This couldn’t get any more heartbreaking,
So I’d better stop 😆.
Whatever you do,
Don’t read this whilst listening to piano music 😅.