Wind blows dreams, catches them and
Away they fly. Nothing and nobody can stop them.
His dreams are his own;
The wish forms his muse,
There's nothing he touches that any can use.
His piano keys, soft with his love in the strands,
Fingers move faster than even he understands.
Blue as the evening that's twilight-infused,
There's gold from his ego, the lantern he grew.
With falling and flying,
The rhythms and blues are so freeing, he can't stop.
Even when they tell him that there are things he can do:
Better, brighter, more brilliance than warmth.
There are words he could say,
Magic that would make them understand,
But he plays isolated in the twilight hours of life.
If they can't hear him, they can't know the magic of making his weeds turn to great heaving flowers.
They can't feel the breeze that blows warmth over his flowers alone.
His dream is free, flying through the air and growing saplings everywhere, like a hurricane of fast-growing inspiration.
If not a weed, but the proof of not-giving-in.
How is his dream received?
Impossible to stop.
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