What's in a name?
What's in a name? What's in the violent epitaphs of youth, the gentle, complacent gravestones of the old? What's in the frozen title of a now-dead king, the famous pseudonym of a golden pen? Why do we exalt words, just scratches on deadened wood, to the name poetry? What is poetry? Thoughts and dreams and feeble shadows in a hazy night? What are thoughts? Dreams? Shadows? Night? Poetry? Prose? Is it all just gold-flaked dust? But it must be more than that. It must be. Because what else is there? What else distinguishes us from animals, except poems and dreams and the crawling night-fear tingle in your spine? Perhaps it is all just a fanciful dream, and perhaps Earth is a dusty dewdrop on a flower petal in a quiet field in the dim scarlet light of morning. Perhaps every blade of grass carries millions of worlds. Perhaps picking a flower of stepping on solid earth destroys universes. Perhaps we are killers, you and I. Are we? I wouldn't know. I'm just a poet, you know. But aren't poets the wise men of the worlds? We think. In other people's dreams are thoughts, but in our thoughts there are dreams. That is the difference. We dream awake, you know, and in those waking dreams are trueness--not truth, mind you, but the quiddity, the whatness, of truth. But how do I know that? My awake-dreams are young and smell of fresh paper. They do not burn like others' do, or sing like some. But there is a taste of trueness in their flavor, a hint, a twist of something... more. A silver strain of other worlds, if you will. They ask questions. They yearn. Yes, these are yearning dreams, dreams that hope and long and cry for trueness they once tasted. These are lonely dreams. But how can a dream be lonely? It is not real, is it? No; perhaps not; perhaps dreams are not real. Or perhaps dreams are simply glimpses of realness in a dusty-dewdrop world.