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.