Real people

Thinking of my unreal times
I think of many real people
In dreams as other creatures
As words turn men and lines
And there is death in stanzas.

I am blind old man to reality
Not highly prophetic but real
As in poems where figments
Take bodies in strange ways,
To lose them by the wayside.

I am the real people in sleep
When the fragments are life
Full of locomotion and flying.
Fragments are wholes of life
That is a fragment of reality.

Words are a prophetic reality
A blind old man’s with holes
For eyes , stopping to smell
A colorless death in the offal
And smell a dying oil lamp.

(Loss of smell may be a predictor of death in the older people- a recent report. According to the ancient Hindu saying, one who does not smell a dying lamp is close to death)

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