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Between the pages of our waking hours,
Captured in the
folds of time we call dreams,
Are kept numerous notions, barely more
Than thoughts, and destined
To remain so.
Fortunate
are the few which come to fruition;
Those improbabilities granted a progression to reality,
Nevermore a dream shall
be; but
Transformed for we to share.
Should fate dictate its failure, however,
Consigned should
it be to that cacophony
Of echoes known as memory;
Resigned to a wallowing existence where,
In spite of ourselves,
Reason,
the "master" of the human mind,
Will, out of weakness, be frequently conquered
By that keen student pity.
With you, I fear no such occurrence;
And so rest, in
our beautiful concurrence.
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