The Choice

The dream hangs in all its glory
Like a vulgar spider
Ugly, eight-legged, eyes on tentacles and all

And chaos serves as usual
To take my mind off the unfathomable

So tell me when it’s cold and dark
and lonelier than ever
Would you still be dreaming of light and warmth and companions
And stay a poet

Would you be hanging on to beauty
Even when you know it’s just a white faced lie
Would you still have faith in love
Even when it cuts like a rusty saber every time you touch it

Or would you rather turn cold and bitter
And impregnable
Safe but alone