Dreams Poem by Mark Heathcote
Dreams
Our dreams are precious flowers.
Ah, each one borne upon the wind
Comes-to-while-away the hours
Each blossom is a gift disinclined
To unlock her chamber embowers.
And nourishment is required.
So we must persevere in our faith
In whatever shells get misfired
We must overcome every malaise
And somehow remain awe-inspired.
Monday, April 18, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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9/19/2024 5:15:16 AM # 1.0.0.1119
