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Palace Of Dreams

there's a palace on my shoulder
where old dreams come to die
on cold dreary mornings sad and weary worn
just as though they were, never even born,

there's a hospital on a hill behind my brow
isn't very high just difficult to climb
all the ways are littered with deep and dark
valleys where the slings and arrows lie
wasted beside their marks,

somewhere the angels hark anew and spring
verse eternal as Hope is made to bow
think about this, every then and now
something unseen knocks at the door
peers in my windows, I
wrestle in my sleep with graveyards gone bye
where old dreams come to die.

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers