When I was young in my dream I could fly;

In my youth I had such wonderful dreams.

Few became true , most turned out to be lie;

Empty mirage, rainbows above moonbeams.

In my midyears I mourned every dead dream,

Every lost rainbow ended with a cry,

The price of failure was lost self-esteem,

Realising I could no longer fly.

In my old age I fly on broken wings,

Or pitifully crawl in choking dust.

Most of my dreams taken such bad beatings,

After “great truths” I can no longer lust.

There remains now just one more final dream,

One that does not end with wake up at morn’,

One in which the Full Truth I can redeem

And after which only others can mourn.

© P. J. Oszmann 2004. (Illustration in Photoshop 2004)