He strove to never break and tell
"I wish I wasn't dreaming."
The yardstick hits the left,
which drops the pen
--then awkwardly positioned in untrained fingers.
Messy writing is more mind elsewhere,
running random strings of memories, hopes, dreams
for smooth-stream-sailing in a moat to your next being.
His Dunce cap has grown so fully with age it's became a teepee under which he gets shelter.
Careful.
He has mastered feats of balance, as he tips the stool from side to side in moments of drowsiness.
His hands react to visions that others cannot see,
and in the presence of the ecstatic realization
he sacrifices himself to its model in the physical
by lighting bonfires and dancing with their creations.
Change of format/some descriptions
He strove to never break:
saying
"I wish I wasn't dreaming."
A yardstick smacks the left-hand.
The pen drops,
picked up by a bony hand
and placed in awkward fingers.
Messy writing
more-mind-elsewhere,
running-random-strings
of memories-hopes-dreams
smooth-stream-sailing
in the safety of a moat to your next being.
The Dunce Cap praise
inflated it into a teepee
from which he gets shelter.
Feats of balance mastered
from Great Saves,
awakening
in the danger of falling
off the stool:
tipping to one side
in moments of drowsiness.
His hands react to visions that others cannot see,
and in the presence of the ecstatic realization
he sacrifices himself to its model in the physical
by lighting bonfires and dancing with their creations.
