How often do you notice the death of a single dream,
Seeing the last drop dry up from its parched stream,
But you don’t really mind, pronouncing not even a tiny scream,
As if having anticipated they were all meant to be steam.
Having let one get by, ignoring a few more, is not so hard,
So you let them seep through your hand, slightly lowering guard,
After all, it isn’t practical to give every wish the utmost regard,
Only to wake up when the last drop turned you into a barren yard.
But fear not, for, this is nothing too much from the ordinary,
And don’t blame yourself, because this isn’t reason to worry,
What’s more important, is that you continue to stay awake,
The best may have got away, but there’s still a lot left to make.
An abandoned dream is not a dawn away, like tomorrow’s mist,
It is more like water, that has forever slipped through your fist,
Fragments of which, only persist till your hands are no longer wet,
Once dried up, they are no longer so hard to simply forget.
They are no longer around, even when transferred to paper,
For, what is a lost dream, if not as unreachable as vapour,
One drop doesn’t really matter, when the glass has plenty,
And its absence only noticed, when even the jug is empty.
But be sure, every one of those drops, is slowly getting together,
Like orphaned rivulets forced to meet, by vagaries of the weather,
And on the day when the skies open their heart upon your head,
Ensure you’re not sitting with an umbrella, even if still in bed.
This one is for the Gazebo, and hopes to tell you of those dreams that you had. Ones you thought were lost forever. Nothing is ever lost, things just go away to return on another day, in another form. The problem lies with our refusal to accept the loss of form more than the loss itself. Have a little faith, and be more accepting, and soon you’ll realise how everything that was lost is back in a new package that you think is new, because of your fondness for the older form.
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