Are just like a dream to me,
Growing up in a concrete jungle, as
They say, the only stream I ever did see,
Was out back, and was impinged
On both sides by concrete, a river bed
Was its name and call to fame.
I often contemplate this impingement,
On one side and the other, just like a troubadour
With notes on the left, and verse on the right,
Making them sing together just right.
Or, the human condition, in general, what we
See outside in plain sight, and the knowing we
Have inside, insight, into our existence,
as we continue with such persistence and
effort into our subsistence.
Dream more, I say, for it’s inside the dreams
We weave, that our futures are sown with seeds.
Water, and tend them well, and they will surely
Turn into streams.