Dream of the Me

To design a truth of purest reality is the dream
Of the me, but of the you as well–so well.
It is a search for some new hope, which clings,
In the shadows, but still unknown or unborn. Its
Living song waits to be heard. It’s cunning: a living,
Panting, dreamlike soul! Defiant, as others claim
Their grave accent. Hinged doubts hang onto the fallacy
Of days ephemerally short, projects of genius,
Cold nights that turn me to yearn, always I spurn.
Once upon a time, failure was merely a concept.
I would not stop. No armor or valor to sway tomorrow’s aim,
All things flowed in sorrow’s purity of Eloquence.
Timelessness in full redoubt cries. Sitting here, alone with
All the future sold, I wait in the pools of my tears, which
All the yesterdays hold, and plead the dream to awaken.
Who knows this thing I cannot see? I wait as what I am.