Hidden in skyscrapers and fairy dust,
Amongst the throngs of faceless mortal men,
Sitting just inside imagination,
We see the spectacle of The Dreamer.
Truly he is as all other humans,
Hair, skin, clothes, a face that shows a past life,
And shimmering eyes that whisper intent.
He is normal, isn't he? So he seems.
But, inside that monotonous human,
Beats the heart and life of the True Dreamer.
In his mind play a thousand different hopes.
A cascade of colors bloom forth for him.
Earth's white walls are slashed and scarred with pigment.
His mind is truly his last limiter.
Raw energy pulses into being.
The Dreamer is as a king, no, a god.
His world, a canvas. Its people, models.
The sticky-sweet joy of life leaps outward.
An explosion, a mesmurizing bomb.
The Dreamer, its epicenter, so bright.
All this in his heart, and only his eyes,
Only his eyes hold the key to his world,
For they are salty seas of deepest light,
As the wonder flows out of his being.