The Awakening of Dreams

We forget in the bustle of life those dreams which moved us in our salad days, and in this slump of disregard, a little of ourselves becomes dead tissue; papering over the life we have desired with a film of the mundane and mediocre. In this time of disassociation we can connect best with ourselves by rekindling the pyre of bygone reveries:

Nuevo Suenos

Because he could not fly,
he chose instead the Art of Building
and followed the threaded path
of soaring constructions and vaunted erections,
winging his way over edifices
assembled from the stuff of reality
in the practical guise of fulfillment

Success, that fickle master,
lay like a shiny coin in his palm,
and beset him from all sides
hemming in his creativity
and depositing it in a bank
molded by business acumen
but embattled by the idiocy
of management run amuck:
he found his competentcy
reflected in a pool of ignorance,
the chains of corporate responsibility
wound tightly about, encircling
his avid mind, and bit by bit
tarnishing the gilded edge,
until he knew the tables had turned
and he was the coin in the machine

On a morning, as he prepared
for the routine cycle, he perchance
spied a robin chirping in its nest,
welcoming the bright fillaments
of Life with the simplicity of being,
and memories, which had lain dormant,
waked from the attic of the mind;
he recalled the original desire,
the colorful mural of his youthful soul,
felt the incompleteness of the pattern,
and panted after the navigation
of the heavens, unbridled in form
mounting once more the vision
of flight unencumbered by society:
it was time, he noted simply,
the period of dreams had swung
its pendulum, projecting outward
where the future waited patiently
coalescing from gossamer wisps
to a vibrant canvas with his stylus
poised to draw a new reality