Why must the Eternal Dreamer

Seek to sow his golden purpose

In a fickle poem, for a fickle world

Pleading to be a destined grain of late harvest

And not a seed of sand from the desert of abundance

Lost, like every other, in the wind

Drifting, fading, falling

Till only silence, with the lifeless dune

Remains.

Eyes that cannot see
hearts harden and cannot feel
life is a wasteland.

The dreamer must be sheltered

By the loudest silence

To be kept from the harm of waking

Yet, how I long to embrace your voice

Even knowing that I could cease to be.