The Dreaming Man

As a dreaming man I often wonder,

As a hopeful man I often assume,

I look to the future as my world splits asunder,

Hoping that someday soon I will bloom,

I am anger and always it blocks my way,

Each day approaches with the taint of sadness,

Doom, gloom and depression all have their say,

And often I smell the stench of my madness.

A rageful man am I, Am I.

Sometimes I have the dialogue of a melancholy man,

And I wallow in a neverending sea of pain in a neverending night,

Listening to the wind or staring up at the fan,

Oh, how I want deliverance, as an ostrich needs to hide and a lion needs to fight.

A saddened man am I, am I.

The mirror, the mirror, how I wish it would crack and shatter,

Leaving in its ruins an empty, beckoning frame,

But then again, I guess it doesn’t matter,

For I would rather be many of me than play the denial game,

Because I see a wasteland of frightened lives,

Strewn with poisoned, emotional rubble,

Littered with countless empty, glassy eyes,

Staring through their invisible bubbles,

And there is a cloud, hazy and white as a midmorning dream,

Appearing to me like a thought running from its delusion,

Tumbling, rolling in the wind, riding through the slipstream,

Hoping to catch the fantasy of another illusion.

A thoughtful man am I, am I.

I look to the earth, I look to the sea,

And nothing is there, so I stare into the fire,

Then I look to the sky and see only one of me,

Singing a song of wonder that will never tire,

Again I look to the earth, again to the sea,

Into the fire, up at the sky, is my path a lie?

For this time, everywhere, I see the many of me,

Singing, go gently, softly into the deep, and learn how to fly.

A man full of life am I, am I.