OF DRAGONS AND BRAVES

Fingers of russet tresses riotously flaming out

As the head nestles on a pillow’s down

Cool cotton floral sheets soothe an aching bout

Of a reverie---dry eyed with not a frown

She traces that brown patch on the ceiling white;

Is it a club-headed dragon leaving an ashen trail

Of those heroes who fled not from its ferocious might,

Or is it a valiant brave astride a steed most frail

Yet conquered and tamed; or simply, just a cracked

Damp stain on plaster, revealed beneath peeling paint…

Such is life: a fantasy sweet or romance by trepidation wrecked

Or plain bare drab reality that makes feeble hearts faint!

Free to see it as she may, although realism entraps her deep

Lying sprawled on those pastels waiting for elusive gentle sleep!