When I crumble, it’s to these I hold;
they remain strong and stead fast.
If I was to fall into a slumber, it is to
they that I’d return. Dreams!
How wonderful to have you, for
if not where would be I be, Christ what if?
If I were without you, sweet beautiful dreams
then for sure, I may well die.
As dreams are life.
They are what hope is.
Floating effervescently, they are as a
dove; graceful, and yet broken-winged
they would be surely ruined. A bird
whose wings cannot be mended. That
irreparable nature cannot
be forgotten. If you allow your dreams to fly
then to yourself they must be tethered; and hold
tight they must, as by the sun’s rays they will burn fast.
It is as with Icarus, who was foolish, and to
you? His lesson: dreams,
they can be broken. For
what then is their purpose? When
like a dove, your dreams
bring you hope and beauty; yet in a flutter go,
escaping quickly on the breeze, should life
allow so. How is
such an animal to be forgotten? So sad, like a
once fruitful tree, now left barren.
Alone. Withering in its field.
So sad, if all dreams were to be frozen;
buried deep, sorrowfully left, with
nothing solid left to hold. Just crisp white snow.
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A golden shovel poem attempt, in association with NaPoWriMo.
Poem used: “Dreams” by Langston Hughes.