Pre-note: I apologise for how long this is… but I do need your help. I would be really glad if I got title suggestions for this poem. It was written by my boyfriend a while back, and we only recently decided to publish his collection with his permission. I believe it only proper that we appendage the name of whomever’s title sounds as a right fit for the poem along-side it in the publication. Thanks in advance… and for taking the time to read.
Wind. Mind and illusion.
Three words of freedom and dream. Dream.
Dream and ambition.
Two words of bravery, audacity and ego.
That which labels not two words or three, or four,
Neither dream nor ambition, neither mind nor illusion,
Four words of placid bewilderment.
Of deep thought and belief, of conviction and denial,
Antonyms and metaphors. Hypothetical self-esteem,
Purely primordial imagination, prayers and chants to invisible airs,
Inferior noises to the blue skies of day, and black skies at twilight,
Compounded sequences of disturbed segments of notion,
In reposed action, flowery paradises of the future.
Ironies of reality, desperate desire and inception,
Four words of critic and mockery,
Extinct possibilities, like as melting glaciers in the winters,
Simmers of boiling emotion, freezing the ice,
Breaking the skies and pouring evils upon earth.
Desire. Desperate desire,
Needs of the soul, penumbral wishes of the body,
Vain. Dark and vain, aimless as the clouds,
Trailing the wind and erasing the silver lining,
Foundations. The origins of the genesis, the irony,
And absolute misery of rains under the sun,
Illusion. The fantasy of a wet sun, melting the clouds to create the rain,
Chimeras that the eyes can feel and the skin can see,
Figments of daydream, visions of fragmented stars,
Is it the blue in the oceans, or the skies?
Is it the green in the park, or the illusion of the mind’s eye?
Clockwork and timeless manufacture of fabrications,
Beauty inexistent, a whole new world.
That which is created in the mind, is that which is not
The action offered in the physical.
The real world.
Ego. Is all it is?
Decharacterised delusion of self,
Constructed being, that which we may not be- wind.
Airs that shred the summer leaves, that burn the rains,
Black skins in white coating, silver with a clouded lining,
Persons that we are not ready to be,
That is who we are. Non-realities.
Simulated mockeries of God’s image,
Wind. Mind and illusion.
Our minds, caught in wild illusions carried swiftly by the winds,
Carried away to a distant place in these dreams.