Poem

Logic is just one river
that empties into the Sea of Thought.

It flows, a path of nature,
as true as the river of Instinct
and much more so than Emotion,
that twisted tributary
feeding into Whim,
as so many others do,
and drink from as well.

But Logic is clear and cool,
not muddied like Fantasy
by all the unicorns and centaurs
galloping along its banks,
a world all its own
and yet just part of ours.

And Logic flows calmly,
no buzz of mosquitoes
in your ears
from stagnant ponds
looking for blood.

I don't understand
why some resist,
just refusing to drink
from this wondrous river.

Or why those who do drink
are not quenched of their thirst.
Maybe it's the lack of taste.

Then my eyes fluttered open,
and I realized I'd been floating down Dream.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 12 at The Sunday Whirl.

I have failed utterly (so far) to write a poem to Wordle 11, which is part of the delay in getting this one posted.