The Poetist

I woke up this morning, dreaming a dream that I knew wouldn’t come true. I was half-asleep, and so it was half by choice that I dreamed it.

I was content knowing the limits of my dream; I’ve already learned what not to ask for. I knew I could never live it.

But wakefulness and reality pushed their way into my dream, trespassed into my sacred ground. Denied me even my dream.

And still I’m a dreamer. I look at what isn’t and I dream of what could be. I see what will never be and I claim that for my desire. And that’s what I hold on to, the most impossible.

Such is the life of a dreamer, and my dreams. I choose what I cannot have; and I dream it anyway.