I do not understand imagination.
I think I know it when I see it.
I'm sure I know it when I "be" it.
But how to know I know?
Sundered sunlight droplets
trickle across my skin
and give me warmth within
while imagination rails inside my mind.
Cold caresses of silvered thoughts
tumble between imaginations poles.
Sounds are shivered in my mind to wholes
and halves intertwined by smells I loathe.
When did that happen?
Has it truly happened yet.
I will not make the subtle bet
and force you then to answer me.
Longing
tearing
fearing
caring
roaming
seeing
whiling
dealing
dancing
peeing
just plain being
all must fuel imaginations forge,
or what's imagination for?