Introspective Parades
By Odin Roark
At a boulevard well known,
Exhilaration starts.
High step strutting beside 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.
Road ahead clear.
One's journey seeming easy,
All for the taking.

What overflowing treasure it is,
Until one's mind questions the direction,
Until one ventures the side streets,
The off-grid wanderings,
Past grass and tree,
Beyond flowers and winged escort,
Onto unexplored plain,
Spreading toward the ever-receding horizon
Where more forks beckon dreams
Dangerously close to mortality's precipitous cliffs.

Even as one momentarily arrests the flight,
Veering to the right,
Swerving to the left,
As new progenies shoulder forward,
Squeezing tenure tighter,
Rendering passage no longer under cloudless skies.
No longer simple survival within one's tiny dream room.
Even then limited time never seems apparent,
Until it does,
Granting no respite to reflect,
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 the old tugs everyone forward,
Dragging what is left of exhausted dreams
Into destiny's ritual finale.

How complex it all seems
When one takes the final peek into the tiny room of dreams,
Where imagination once innocent began.

Not everyone loves a parade.