So Why So Many ... ?

The truth,

great poets teach,

is the one Golden Bough

So why plant so many words?

So why continue to plough?

So why continue the harvest,

if the truth is known to man?

That good is one way in this world,

and evil the other plan.

Why so many pages to dreams?

Why so many to visions?

Why so many devoted to imaginings,

forgotten since children?

So why so many … ?

Of headless ghosts there are not a few,

and many more of serpents and dragons.

And many tales have enough of truth

to pass into folk legends.

Of witches not quite burned at the stake,

and wizards almost but not captured.

Returning with a sweet revenge,

on a good that never hurt them.

Of demons with great satanic powers,

take for granted their being.

But of Satan there seems to be a doubt,

so he is found not guilty.

Of fairies and elves befriended,

and fickle gods that bring ruin or plenty.

Of good witches there can be no doubt,

but there can’t be many.

From this as a child I was schooled,

while reason was laid aside.

A few hours to learn of life,

a lifetime to unlearn of lies.

Then to wake … !

in the night to a sleeping world,

and find my soul listening,

and at first to reach for the light,

and find my arm sleeping,

and curse my arm for being,

and myself for being frightened,

for the truth is known to the poets,

so why the dreams?  So why the visions?

So why so many?