Imagination

One makes two and two makes me,
The copple pot pan bangs so loudly.

To the brim, to the right, to the way to the sky,
The dragons all soar majestically high.

With a knife, with a flash,
It hangs at your throat,
With a soft fogish air it is utterly smote.

In the trees, in the vines, is the way to green,
With a jungle heart as I swing unseen.

Up, up, goes the hanging towers,
So hard, unscaled, to the maidens dower.

Then with a hard plunge into the deep,
As it is time for the gingerly sleep.

For now...!