A beautiful place for everyone . . .

The Church of Dreams,
It seems,
In search of streams,
Creeks, springs,
A little water,
Nothing more,
Where everything,
Takes care of itself,
Yet, survives on,
Everything else.
Be it in mountains,
Sand or in clay,
The sun beats down,
Only to lay,
Resting by night,
The stars and moon obey,
Holding tight,
'Til twilight.
Only to succumb,
To the rising sun.
The clouds drift,
In and out,
With swift indifference all about,
Yet, sometimes, vibrant in motion,
Taking hold,
Of the sky,
For moments at a time.
The wind sings through the trees,
Breathing deep with such ease.
The earth is alive,
Warm and free.
Giving of itself to strive,
And give all others’ creeds,
Adhering to their needs.
Blinded by faith,
This Church is safe.
The earth is rounded,
No way of looking down,
At any, the many.
Some are absconded,
Some astounded,
Left unfounded,
Of the real nature,
All around them.
Yet, to be founded,
Under foot,
Above the head,
Beauty is not dead,
Only skin deep,
The simplicity of the Master,
Creator,
Is not a disaster,
Only a Master Caster,
Molding each form,
Not to a norm,
Separately cast,
To last,
Maybe a day,
Maybe longer,
Be it weaker or stronger,
Arrives in tides,
No directions,
Only reflections,
No plan to follow,
Not hollow,
Yet, uninformed,
Not uniformed,
A creation made,
One of a kind,
Each to its own,
Sensitivity and demeanor,
In its trunk,
Be it man, plant or skunk.
A reason for all,
No ones’ call,
Burdens, to bury or to haul.
It’s a natural thing,
To carry a dream.
The Church of Dreams,
Only a footprint away,
No books to carry,
Nothing to tarry,
Only to enjoy,
Each and every day,
The journey along the way.