If I paint the grass bright blue
The clouds will not know what to do.
They'll mill about upon the ground
Thinking trees are upsidedown.
Hopes and dreams are a fickle companion.
Darting in and out as if in no dominion.
Feed them well and they may stay.
Beware, also could they allow so close, then betray.
Ask you, why then will I still chase uncatchable catches?
Say I; the pursuit, without it we all mill about in batches.
Something must be sought, reach far the mind will not go drone.
Perhaps, with luck, goals will be attained, a new life grown.
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