Are my dreams still alive.
Was the dream maker only a dream after all|
Did his picture fall down from my small bedroom wall,
Did he run out of dreams and go wandering again
Like a reason that never had time to explain,
And why have my wishes blown softly away
Down some whispering alley to some other day,
And why when I wakened again in my time
Had the dreams that I questioned turn into my rhyme?
Are my dreams still alive in the poetry I write
Whether lost in the dark or alive in the light,
And why do my rhymes consecrate every eve
Is it really a question I need to believe,
And if I believe every poem I create
Is it then that my poetry can be called great,
Or is it just that Iím fooling myself once again
Like a poet who gives in to lifeís aches and pain?
Why is my poetry such a tonic to me
Are their rhymes of life echoes of all things to be,
And if echoes donít come back then how will I learn
How rhymes write themselves while the heavens still turn,
And finally my thoughts come to turn in the breeze
As my poems set out from the whispering trees,
Poems are the word panacea of lifeís song
They keep the feet dancing as life rolls along.
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