At the base of a mountain that I’ve never
climbed-
at the mouth of a river that I’ve never crossed-
on the bank of a lake as wide as the sky, a lake
that only exists when I close my eyes-
surrounded by a green made more vibrant
by the darkness behind my lids,
and the crisp scent of hope lingering in my nostrils-
that’s where my dreams are made-
faceless people and nameless landmarks
dot the crevasses of this anonymous world,
full of sights and sounds and the richness
of the unexplored,
still thick with the mystery that we all held
onto as youths-
that indomitable fervor that flourished when we
all felt that anything conceivable was possible,
before the sting of age stunted that innocence-
that’s where dreams are made…
behind our lids-
on the peaks of great snow swept mountains, beneath rushing,
uncharted rivers, and dancing within the gentle waves of
pristine lakes, they lay patiently
in the stillness, waiting for the moment that
our eyes choose to open to the brilliance of that
new day sunlight,
and unlock the secret that will whittle away at
any existing doubt-
what we want is already there, waiting*