A friend of mine had a dream,
And for a brief moment,
He believed it.
Would lose a day’s work musing over the dream.
It was a fantasy,
An illusion, that consumed his world,
And with each telling of the dream,
It grew richer in his mind.

Look over there,
He would say.

The dream is on the other side of the river.
Scramble over the bank.
Rush through the woods.
An image.
Of an open field he could call his own.

But it would not be so.
He was a wanderer by profession.
Never would he be able to call that field his own.
Never to say.
I’m home.
Never to warm his worn feet by the fire.

The flame must die at some point.
And so it did with him.
The pull of a trigger,
To the back of a head.
Little did he know how much of the dream would go with that bullet.

Another dream lost,
In the hands of its maker.