What are dreams but kites we string,
thoughts we stress,
sometimes obsess,
with tails and tales of fantasy,
that we run a field
with overhead,
seeking to find a bit of lift,
a warm and rising currency,
that buys us time,
time for us to bide our wish,
like lofting balloons of lunacy,
but serves us well,
that we do dwell
on thoughts of things
that may yet prove
veritably impossible,
least we lay a plan,
and execute.