The dream lives in the dark recesses of a forgotten room,
Its ashes trembling, a phoenix chick waiting to emerge from its greyish egg,
The potential is there, the body is willing but the mind ceases to give itself credit for what it can do,
And yet the dream lives.
It hides there within the strings of a forgotten guitar,
Its tone as beautiful as ever, it holds the legendary bird in its hollow,
It knows that there is all the time in the world but it yearns to have its moment now before the rain comes,
Because the dream lives.
Never so simple as letting it rot it knocks at my door,
I left it behind not long ago, knowing that it would get me nowhere,
But the happiness it takes with it and the chemical release is enough for it to ensnare me with its rope,
The dream lies.
I let it tell me what it thinks I am and pretend,
Although I know that the pen holds more safety for me,
The curse of the storyteller keeps me hooked but I cannot deny my first love was music,
The dream that died.
But no more, there’s the rest of my life to go,
I remind myself of this as I let the instrument rest,
If I take my chances when available I could stand a chance at the old dream,
But dormant it survives.
It stays with me in my heart and I wear it on my sleeve,
Despite the fact that my potential may lie elsewhere in my brain,
The old Gods still having some sway over the old it keeps its hands on my shoulders,
And I treasure its soft embrace.