The Dusty Book of My Dreams

The sun falling down, The planetoids taking initiatives to twinkle, Walking down the lane, I suddenly realised, All my dreams, yet were wrinkled. I remember, when I was five, "Destine to become a doctor!", my father often used to say. To handle medical weapons, Imagining all this, brighter had become my days. At round ten, coaxing me, My mother said," Teaching should be your profession. " Scolding kids, helping them when in need, Each day would end up with a new lesson. "A grown up you are, Follow your dreams!". Echoes could be heard, While I'd just turned sixteen. I often wonder, What are 'dreams'? Cherished aspirations -which in the mere future, Can promptly be seen!