Lady Poetry Is It A Young Man's Game? Poem by Mark Heathcote

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.