your bright nova’s shining.
What dreams can you not make true?
I can’t imagine the number of dreams that were brought to you.
Where, pray tell, are those dreamers now?
sprawled in mansions along your vistas?
or lost amidst sidewalks too poor to fix-up?
Where, pray tell, have their dreams then gone?
I reckon one day, I’ll come to your keep,
and offer my penance, and my dreams, so meek–
and tell you a tale, of whence I have come,
and hope that you’ll see me a befitting son.
And with this hope, I pack my things.
Goodbye, I bid, to my husband, and kin,
I’ll buy my tickets with tears in my eyes,
for I know when I reach you, I shan’t return lest I die.
look upon us with care,
we bring you our hearts,
so tender, so bare–
and tell you the things, that lie in fright within us,
for dreams are not things, they are what make us.
how you send us on our way,
for the weaker may choose
to give in to despair,
and drink in their worries,
or end it one night,
big cities with big dreams,