There are jungles
that need watering.
There are moments
that need capturing.
There are poems
that need writing
and while that is so,
there can be no rest for
he who dreams.
He who dares make meaning
in a world with none.
Who, when all has been said and done,
has the audacity
to say and do more.
He who whittles away
a single aspen-wood branch
into a paddle
that he can use to row himself through **** creek
each and every time he ends up there.
Austerity is standard fare
in an economy built on foundations
that accepts truth
like a ration of which there will always
be a short supply.
He who dreams will be beaten
to the point of defeat,
but he will make the decision
to cross it or not.
To emboss his failure
on his forehead forever more
or to fight the good fight
whatever anyone has in store.
He who dreams does not sleep,
he creates Zs only with his pen
which will punctuate the leaps
between now and then,
when then becomes now
and now becomes 'time to go'
once again.
But he leaves only in spirit,
with his body left behind
not granted wings to follow...
instead left earthbound to swallow
the cold medicine
of reality.