Dreams
They began long before I spoke a sound,
or touched my young feet to the ground,
and it's strange to me how plain it seems,
to most, there's not much charm to dreams.
The word itself betrayed its form,
becoming hopes; some perfect norm,
when at the bottom of the well,
the mystery persists to tell,
Not of things that you design,
but something greater–and divine?
A blend of truths and fantasies,
stemming from the voiceless pleas,
Of minds to make sense of the fact,
that this is really not some tract,
decided by one so far away,
that we forget the dream's the day.
Written on 5 July 2017
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2017
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