In confines, comfort, intimately I confess
to me a dream does not come at nighttime,
it happens over your lifetime, you see it as nothing less
than a reality, where you've done it all right
and achieved what you could at your very best
perhaps as simple as a career, car and a new address

I see a man who owns very little, on very much land
and he spends his days in solitude, a revered calm from the ink smudged on his palm
when he closes his hand around a pen, embracing the solace reinforces his attitude
deep breaths, long hair a mess, his home open to the wind that blows a cool summer breeze
handwritten notes, each letter is an atrocity, yet he stacks pages a day with ease

The thing about him that I want more than anything he has,
is when he stops, nothing else goes through him,
and when I see him looking to me, forlorn and hopeful
I know he'd part with that for someone who needs it.