Dreams

          We hold our dreams so close to our heart.

Never, never thinking they should ever part.

Yet often, and much to our demise, we discover it all a ruse.

Thus as old dreams die, new ones unbeknownst are born.

Tiny are the seeds of hope planted by the Lord in hearts worn.

Yet dreams are like smoke; seen but often untouchable at times.

          How many times have dreams vanished before my eyes?

How many times have dying, dead dreams brought a simple cry?

Only now comes this cry from this my searching heart.

A longing cry… looking for its dream in the midst of a muddled uncertain sky.

J. Allen Wilson © 3/26/2011