Dream

Time is passing and I am soaring above the clouds upon the wind in the
crystal blue sea of sky.  Below me, around me, is the graceful arc of
the world, verdant plains, ancient forest--the trees stand silent watch.
 And before me are majestic peaks glittering with the rising sun or
brooding in their own shadows, and I laugh, knowing that I can fly
higher still, beyond their shadowy grasp.

If I had patience and strong will, then I wouldn't feel what I feel, I
wouldn't want to burst out upon the world and scream of my frustrations
and fears.

Time is passing and I am gliding, dipping my wings, then now falling
madly, the ground rising up to meet me, and the world is spinning, and
the wind is howling, and I laugh as the tempest batters my slight body,
for I have no fear, no fear, for I have touched the sky, and not even
death could steal my glory at this moment.

Woe, for I am cursed, cursed with Dreaming, for all that I wish are
impossible things, or so it seems, and yet, though I might try, I cannot
help but yearn for the caress of the wind upon my wings, or the fiery
touch of a star blazing in the outer darkness.  Such is the curse, and I
can no longer discern what will be, what might be, and what cannot be,
for all things to me are equally probable, all things to me are equally
impossible.

And even more, there is stillness in my spirit, a quiet desolate
darkness, keeping me chained to where I stand, rooted to where I lie, a
stillness that smothers me, chokes me, and I dare not move, for I am
afraid, as all living things, all dying things, are afraid, though we
live/die each and every second.