Felliniesque Parade
by Odin Roark

At one’s boulevard of dreams,
exhilaration starts.

High step strutting beside imagined fife and drum,
avenues of sun-drenched colors
amidst waving flags
pave the way,
Sousa driven ambition begins marching.

So many dreams there are
at such a young age.

Quantity of anything seems large,
especially inside one's head,
that tiny room where imaginary musings
create adventures into worlds unknown.

Stimulation rules.

Air untainted.

Sky without clouds.

Roads ahead clear.

A journey patiently waiting.

All for the taking.

What overflowing reward,
one's unquestioning direction
abiding venturesome side streets,
the off-grid wanderings,
past grass and tree,
beyond flowers and winged escort,
unexplored mindscapes
spreading toward the ever receding horizon
where more forks beckon more visions
ignoring sanity's precipitous cliffs.

Even as one momentarily arrests the flight,
veering to the right,
swerving to the left,
pausing at the shoulder,
squeezing tenure tighter,
accepting passage no longer under cloudless skies,
no longer simple survival,
one's tiny fantasy room fading.

Even then…

Limited time never seems urgent until it is,
affording no respite to reflect,
to feed the pigeons,
sway amidst the waves of wheat,
enjoy one last lager.

For there's little leisure
when the next generation
longs to parade as well,
pushing and shoving from the rear,
while aging stumbles forward,
dragging what is left of exhausted dreams
into destiny's finis.

How adventuresome life’s parade remains,
even when knowing the final peek
into one’s shrinking realm of dreams
may be close at hand,
that ancient moment when imagination’s cycle
of bold risk once began.

The jester in us all knows…

Everyone deserves a Felliniesque parade,
before conformity’s fever takes hold.