Lady Poetry Is It A Young Man's Game?

Lady Poetry how can I focus on my dream? When all my rational tell me to wake up from, sleepwalking and scream! Here's a young man on a bench Whom, has a pile of books for a pillow, With a hard nib pencil and a deft scribble he writes, writes & rewrites. Writes like a hairy tarantula on its back. "Looking up… eyeing… all the angles of attack". His size 9 feet well-arched fidget and fumble as though they're turning on a golden bath tap. A tap of never-ending drying ink wells surely he's not yet in touch with the milky cosmos… Drawing on a web one end to another! But here he is gazing over his left shoulder; tell me. Lady Poetry "Am I still dreaming star dazzled by starlight? " Cause that glint of arrogance in his peacock eyes that grey matter that polygon hive of bees. So—busy sure keeps us all up guessing? Mesmerized and hypnotize. How can I focus… on a dream? When my ageing matter my ardour - its logical rationale is to wake up From, sleepwalking dreams. To the here and, now of writing, my own feeble reams. To you: and you only, Lady Poetry.