The morning swelled in my head
like a tempest,
and lightning splintered through my brain
like rivers divide land on a map-
the coffee was thin that morning,
and yet the tension was thick-
it hit me that my dreams only thrived
on paper-
paper dreams are sometimes the worst
kind,
a visual tease that’s all too easily crumpled,
and all too easily forgotten-
like old receipts, they are often stuffed into
pockets to collect darkness and dust,
discarded into a stack of unfinished old dreams,
or simply buried or thrown away, tossed
into the disposal of days and weeks and
stress-
the coffee was weak,
but my resolve was strong-
paper, for all its frailties, can become
airplanes, and soar-
they mold into cranes, and shapeshift
and bend and become whatever the
eye can envision-
paper populates legendary libraries and they house
volumes of some of the greatest thoughts
and dreams and hopes ever recorded-
paper dreams can become a beautiful
life-
the morning swelled and the thunder
collided with the clouds like a scrum,
and it hit me with the power of the rivers
that divide the maps-
paper dreams can become the best kind,
proof that the mind is busy at work and
play,
a visual tease,
an appetizer that gets you salivating
and hungry,
heightening your drive and stimulating
your passion,
leading to a brilliant main course-
it’s easily crumpled, but just as easily folded
into a neat square, ready to be taken
with you-
those timeless dreams, just waiting to be unfolded
and read aloud into the welcoming of the
universe,
ready then to be fleshed out with the force
of a tempest*