everyone seems to have a dream
a poet that must occupy their time
weaving words through the weary seams
an artist must dance their brush in line
with the natural beauty of rivers and streams
a dancer spends their evenings alone
forgetting who they are, at home
and can never be forgotten-
a violinist feels their fingers hum over the strings
and the far off mountain's distant thrum
calling to their soul-
everyone seems to have a dream,
a plan for the future, divine-
planned out by heaven before them
but the hard question is: what is mine?