Could it be? In reality as in dreams

That we could fly without wings?
In younger years with thoughts pulling at seams

Infinite possibilities and no attached strings.

Yet time is a demon, with reality

At its side. Bring realizations and false
Pride. We want for nothing, save brief fantasy,

Yet too afraid to venture new ground or new waltz.

The killing of dreams via growing older.

The dreams that come and remain
We must treasure, we must let smolder

In hearts and their honesty we must retain.

For who can state with conviction

That dreams are for the children?
That they are an unreliable fiction?

Dreams live on in minds, their safe haven.