Memories assault my mind,
And make me drink a draft of darkness all my own,
The once-filled corners of my mind are empty now,
And though accompanied, I am alone.

I’ve given all I had to chase a dream,
Which haunted me for much too long a time,
Shards of reality now cut the empty refrains of what might have been,
Of shattered truths and dreams gone awry.

I seek with the hunger of a dying soul,
And am rewarded for my foolishness,
With an endless void where the only meaning to be gleaned,
Is from the shadow cast by my dying mind.

What of Don Quixote and his faithful Sancho Panza,
When the dragons begin to take their true form and windmills appear?
He fights to hold on to the dream and failing to do so,
Dies from the crushing weight of his reality.

When I wake, I will redden profusely,
And put down my ragged lance,
To take my rightful place,
Beside the great dolts of our time.

Yet still I sleep, though I know the uneasiness of incipient wakefulness,
I cling on to the dream, knowing it a dream,
For in its sweet promise lies the only truth I can accept,
My only hope, the evanescent reverie of an immature mind.