Dreams,
The wisps that flows like tears through his fingers,
Consuming and devouring gentle ideas,
Bouncing like rubber against his skull,
Twirling in friendly banter around his curled and protective arms,
Nibbling against his inner heart until it beats in tune,
Invisible yet so corporeal to the graced and fragrant mind.

Dreams,
Follow them into the sunset he said,
Chase them down until they are upturned dog bellies for you to scratch,
Whisper them into your lover's hair he praised,
Scream them from the outside of your skin until you are tattooed in high hopes,
Race in the meadow of your possibilities, grazing hands through gentle grass stains,
Skip along the crux of your horizons he taunted,
See your dreams and follow them through.

Dreams,
Like cold butter, so easy to cut, so hard to spread,
Bright and dull and pulsing with newborn growth,
Born from abstract praise and ideation,
Birthed for the exact purpose of leading on, forwards once more, towards the hopeful past,
He had ran from himself for as long as he could,
His legs ached with the heavy weight of his guilt and confusion, eyes darkened by knowledge,
He had chased his dreams down into an alley,
Brick by brick trapped them in a cellar so they could never escape,
Ignored the harsh conscience who nagged and begged at his closed ears to stop.

Dreams,
Fountain of change,
Bringer of hope,
Pusher of people,
There was still time, he thought, as he blocked his dreams away,
He could let them out and set chase another day.