That was odd, I thought, since that was a thing. By the sea, this is something a fisherman might do.
We were landlocked, distant from the sea, and the cowlicked youngster was young and green.
I put it up to the light once he completed and thought, for someone so young, he appeared extremely elegant and practiced.
As a result, I asked him, What do you think now that it’s finished?
He murmured, I believe I am a phony and a dunderhead.
I laughed as I pondered, That describes both me and the rest of you.
I put it next to the others on the wall and asked him, “Do you like that?” Yes, just like that.
Should a dream be nothing more than a dream that we let die like a sick kid born today? Mothers weep openly cradled in a stranger’s arm, while a father mourns a treehouse with a thousand doors. Or should it fade away like candlelight beside my sleeping head, leaving no sound or suffocating a peaceful death, a peaceful bed?
Should a dream be nothing more than that? Something I cherished but let die in the summer heat, till its memory confronts me on my dying coast And I recall that dream, carefully tucked away in the recesses of my wild imagination, where life had chained and tethered me to a counterfeit design of a strict working man measured in nines and fives.
Should a dream be nothing more than that? Then hear this barbarous roar: To dream as I dream Is a dream worth dying for.
