I have often wondered how things would be,
if my dreams came to me?
They are just out of reach. Winged creatures,
without features.
Just when I start to see their wings glowing blue gleam,
farther and farther away they seem to stream.
Just out of reach, they tease and taunt me.
Never really letting me see.
Some are darting around on pieces of wings.
Pinched off by a reflex, so that dream to me could only sing.
Enough of it’s song to keep it alive.
A taste so small, to keep me deprived.
There is one big dream I have never held.
Each time I try, I always seem to fail.
Perhaps I am attacking it wrong.
But still, in the distance, it sings its song.
Sirens of the deep,
that much to often make me weep.
Two of my endless dreams I have captured.
In the big picture, one hasn’t brought much rapture.
Each little dream I add to my potion,
perhaps will calm my emotional ocean.
Taken from ‘The Reconstruction of Me’. A collection of poems I started in the early 2,000’s. Not a published book.
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