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Poem

The young dream of a perfect world, atlas it is not to be.
The old look back at what could have been to only realize
it has always been the way it is supposed to be.  Do dreams die
in rage or softly fade with age.  The world turns around and around.
Dreamers come dreamers go and this world keeps spinning.
With life find love or let love find you. Two souls can dream together.
comfort one another and awake knowing dreaming the dream is half the fun.
Hear the voices of the new generation, in their music, art, culture.
Do you ever hear the echoes of a young dreamer of long ago? Advice falls on
stubborn ears, pig-headedness who can do it right this time, they are better,
they are special, they know more than those of before. Smile as you see your self, bite your tongue and any doubts or fears. Shout at the wind as it
 blows back at you and hears those dreams of yesterday again. 
Those same dreams still
circling this big spinning world so another young generation can slowly 
realize it has always been the way it is supposed to be. 
Shout at the wind, shouting
at the winds of time.

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