Treasure Island

Ben Paynter

(Midwest)

5 a.m.


a clutch of nothing, you wish
for the dream to return, to
feel the tip of touch and let
the fingers dance mad once

again, it's night and I am
climbing stairs to the attic
of my mind, where you visit
from time to time, I have

pictures wrapped in cherry
cloth and stones to throw
your way if you chance
to visit this place, again i

wonder where dreams go
to die, picture room of
stone with one chair, a mirror
facing it, growing old, and me

repeating, repeating, wake
up, wake up, with lips and
mouth and how the mind melts
at this, just a moment

it begs to breathe and
coughs and I am four years
old and running to the river, you
see yourself in ripples, water

droplets pinned to earth, see
yourself calling out, wake
up, wake up,
the meter's running.

Submitted: Saturday, August 08, 2009
Edited: Tuesday, October 29, 2013

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Comments about this poem (5 a.m. by Ben Paynter )

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  • Jono Casuyon (9/26/2013 1:41:00 PM)

    All-in-all the poem got me, especially the last four and you finished with an intriguing ending. Great job! (Report) Reply

  • Mark Money (9/26/2013 1:08:00 PM)

    this is not cookie-cutter stuff. this is original, and original is what we need in today's world. great job.....keep posting! ! (Report) Reply

  • Shirley Woods (8/8/2009 7:54:00 AM)

    Hi Ben,

    Wow! Some brilliant thoughts in this - love the bit about where dreams go to die! It's great to read something so different (Report) Reply

Read all 3 comments »

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