Friend last night as I slept,
The strangest of things I dreamt,
I dreamt I parted with my breath,
I dreamt my soul crossed into death.
There I was among the dead,
Men who have no need for bread.
First my heart was filled with fright,
But I soon found much delight.
I saw the graves of every scribe
Confined in mortal proscribe,
Open up and dead men spewed
To give them life renewed.
Lords of ink and spoken word,
Rising up from deathly bed.
Rising from their tombs discrete,
Coming forth their word to speak.
Marvell, Blake and Shakespeare,
Came through saying, "I am here!"
Scores of other poets too,
Some of whom I never knew.
We met as poets young and old,
In rhyme and verse out lives we told.
Tales of sweet-kiss, lover's breath,
Tales of pain and hard whips’ wrath.
Though I sound a lot insane,
I tell you now, I'm very sane!
Twas a graceful sight I saw,
Listen now I tell you more.
There we gathered mighty scribes,
A sight no tongue can describe,
A gathering of all the best
Risen from death bed rest.
We spoke all night and did not tire,
Lashing with our tongues of fire,
We spoke for simple need to speak,
No one glory sought to seek.
Twas bliss in Poet Heaven wild,
None the critic our work to chide.
Scribes read of from tales of old,
Risen from the earth's belly cold.
Alas as all dreams pass away,
This one too went the same way.
The morning came and I awoke,
I left my pen wielding folk.
I rose to face my life the usual,
Out to face my demons brutal.
The worst is the one they call critic,
Ready to smite with rhetoric!