Dreams get smaller.
Years and knowledge chip away at their borders.
Disillusionment lays waste to once fertile fields.
Fields become gardens, forgotten from a shed,
Until an old man dies in a small room,
wondering where the years went.
About the Author: admin
Hi…
I seem to have missed loads of posts from you: Is there an RSS feed I missed?
Most have made me think but this one keys into what I’ve been pondering for some time. The dream we have is for a community of believers that creates art and tells stories, and it’s probably going to involve ecoligical living. I seem to have stopped working towards that, so I think it’s time to tell ‘reality’ to look the other way, and get on with working towards that goal again.