My dreams,

I cling to with a zealous naivete,

like Icarus flying to the sun,



Sometimes,

the path is rocky . . .



Scalpel-sharp stones,

bite my tender feet,

cut into my scarred fingers,

tear open old wounds,

flood my soul with anguish,

despair,



Ideals,

rooted deep within,

fuel the blaze that,

keeps me functioning,

raging,

sane,

like a locomotive,

racing ahead on the iron ties,



Perfection,

is,

a four-leaf clover,

my car without a scratch,

mountains shaped like cones,

predictable weather,

impossible,



So I ae



Look for a utopia,

buried somewhere,

here and,

there,

everywhere,

pieces,

like shattered shards of a precious vessel,

scattered all around,

under my nose and feet,

waiting to be,

assembled