Lids

If our lids were to fall off,
The insides of our heads
Would spill upon the ground,
And how strange it would be
To walk upon the land,
Dancing on dreams,
Tripping over doubts,
Nightmares, and regrets.

The haberdasher knows this
And works at his craft to create
Ever tighter lids
To keep our crucibles in check.
Toppers for all the gents,
Bonnets for all the ladies,
Because, in the end,
He knows all our cups overflow.

A visionary is this noble craftsman,
Working in his soup kitchen for the Greater Good,
Handing out felt and cloth soup bowls.
For, as we know,
To the destitute race of man,
Our gruel is hope,
Our broth is fantasy,
Our food is thought.

If our lids were to fall off,
It would be a beautiful apocalypse.
Iridescent rainbows would
Flow from our open tops.
Phantasms, all the plans that were and will be,
All the beauties in the eyes of the beholders,
The things that go bump in the night,
Fears, fallacies, ideals, and finally purity,
Would fly from our great and terrible Pandora's boxes.

But despite this beauty,
Or perhaps because of it,
A sadly inevitable tragedy would occur,
For in the midst of this awesome display,
Reveries and chimeras would twine.
Thoughts and feelings would pour
Into lakes and rivers and seas
And turn, as one, to
Grey.