The man that may spend an eternity in his head
With dreams that deem all else damnable;
Shall push and pass the world outside
And live in wanting of an end with no path.

And so many live in unrelenting squalor
As their own subpar perfectionists.
Afraid to lurch towards a start
Lest they find themselves wanting
From themselves.
Any direction will bring us back
To a world of inaction;
Save that of dreaming;
We dream it all.