in dreams

In dreams we dare,

in doubt we stall,

We cling to shadows, rise or fall.

A spark of madness, pure yet sly,

Turns dust to stars, and earth to sky.

So chase delusion, bold and free,

For what we dream, we come to be.

There comes a tide that knows our name,

though no map marks where it begins.

It gathers quietly

beneath ordinary days,

pulling at unseen anchors,

loosening roots we thought eternal.

The shoreline hesitates.

The sea does not.

Somewhere beyond the horizon,

a lantern burns in a distant window.

Small as a star.

Steady as a promise.

We cannot know

whether it belongs to a harbour

or another wandering soul.

Still, we sail toward it.

The night offers little certainty.

Only shifting constellations,

the creak of timber,

and the strange conviction

that the darkness is not empty.

How often we mistake imagination

for foolishness.

The seed for the tree.

The sketch for the cathedral.

The first note of a symphony

heard by no one else.

Every future begins as a beautiful impossibility.

A rumour.

A mirage.

A light glimpsed through fog.

And yet the heart follows.

Not because it understands,

but because it remembers something

the mind has forgotten.

So chase delusion, bold and free.

The stars guide no ship

that remains in the harbour.

And the horizon reveals itself

only to those willing

to disappear into it.