Shrimping
Beware the baby dreamers,
in lines they sing for youth —
yes, they may shrimp further,
but they’ll never sink deeper than truth.
Their warmth will seem illusion —
a bubbling and boiling, a
charcoaled fire under finer men, where
perhaps steamings of wise gusts are
propellers past propped peaks:
the invite to a pondering of airs,
of nothing but Gods and Stars between
the Spaces, in timid observations of the
blankness incomplete.
Only in dreams of sleepers
during sleepless nights,
in competing, passionate opposition,
are realms gone — and lost, far deeper
between a clutch of purities
and obsessive pressures,
like diamond roughs, shimmering in divide
of a residing coal, unknowingly in delight
with unopened eyes, a vision surpassing change
seemingly brimmingly untainted —
ever knowing of its place.
Soon — then — the palace will rise,
bringing remedy within melodies
and wisdom of ancient hymns —
coquette’ered
will be then, them baby shrimpers
with a milk and honey
to nurture a newborn dream —
and on that milk and honey,
they too will be matured, nurtured by means
within the warmest, wisest steams
of rising dreams, unremembered —
screaming in light of an all-knowing,
all-seeing, all-feeling heat.