Poem: The Flea Market Contraption – 15/07/21

The flea market presents –
options – one-of-a-kinds,
and rip-off pieces,
poor imitations,
badly woven threads,
lurid patterns,
blatant patent breaches seen,
and the imaginary,
the ingenuity,
and the copies of a land
in between.

I peruse the stalls,
pace back and forth,
my timid tippy-toes,
they don’t guide me,
they don’t lead me,
I’m unsure of what to
sample in this flea market
land I’m in.

Some ideas are magical,
well-presented products,
smartly dressed merchants
in hide-away stalls,
others are horrid,
they hurt my eyes,
these products, rubbish,
unworthy of meeting
hands or eyes.

Amongst the trash and beauty,
objects I see,
I spot a contraption that
might be for me.
It is the making of
cloudy billowy dreams,
sanctified, certified?
No, but perfect for I.

It promises to churn through
all my ideas,
promises to rid me of
encumbering fears
and will lay away
any confronting questions
thrown my way,
it will replenish my mind
for many days.

A mind-clearer,
a dream-recycler,
a precious gatherer
of many mental pictures,
the imagery within,
perhaps barely initially seen,
unclouded, decoded,
all work done,
prepared for me!

But then I wonder
is this not like a disease?
Something which eats away,
erodes at my dreams?
Erasing me in ways
I dare not speak,
by bluntly, superficially
simplifying me?

And I cannot have this,
I must remain complex,
hard to delve into,
thoughts difficult to be met,
and so away with
this idea,
this contraption for me,

I’d rather be convoluted,
a puzzle unsolved,
until I’m ready to make
the pieces fly free.

© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by aytuguluturk from Pixabay

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