What Happened To the Dreamers?
What happens to our dreams?
They seem to discolor;
they shrivel
and fall wistfully into distant memory
like so many autumn leaves.
They seem to slip from grasp
and shatter painfully
as they hit the floor
like so many glasses before it.
When we grow,
our hearts become lost in the inferno.
They fry, dry out, turn crispy.
They become easily cracked, fragile.
They become useless, sterilized.
I watch my first hour teacher
as she preaches generalizations
of relationships we don't want.
She gives examples from her own life.
I watch and I see nothing.
She is dead from the inside out.
Her humanity is locked in dormancy.
She is a hollow shell with a voice box.
Sometimes I think
she should take a queue from Hemingway;
paint the walls with the back of her skull
and fragments of led-fused brain tissue.
When the dreams go,
so goes the heart,
so goes the soul,
so goes self-will,
so goes humanity.
Pry into the mind of a child.
Look around, soak it in.
See what we've all been missing.
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