Sometimes I feel like tiny man with only almost dreams,
like tea kettle on low, with only half the steam.
Where is the air, to make sharp calling sound of whistle?
Dreams once made of marble, now come cracked and brittle.
What say I to all the friends who believed so dear,
that my feet would walk the water top without a single fear?
While drowning, how can I tell them I’ve fallen far beneath,
the treasure I was hunting for and never got to meet?
How do I find the courage to face them once again,
as cemetery bones cry earth to mock, break, and bend,
everything I thought I knew about my tired self;
see them collecting dust now, those dreams upon the shelf?
Quivering hand and bedside lamp, reaching careful touch,
perhaps I’ll pull them closer now, I’ve missed them oh so much.
by Kevon Simpson © 2014