Play For Me My Dream Poem by S.W. Clark

In the wake of the sun bright early morn
dreams still travel, they are never lorn
thrusting ill fate to the place of the deep
and uplifting all you wish to keep
Your dream was made of good tomarrows
of a world of love and no more sorrows
of peace, and hope for every soul
no matter where evil took its' toll.
Your hearts' stretching forth
a grasp to eternity
trying to give the drought
of fate a plea:
'Please, please
play for me my dream.'