To me

If dreams of mine are not allowed to be,

and nothing real becomes of what I’ve sought,

then I shall live (more appropriately)

in fancy-land forever, without squat.

For if those dreams I dreamed are only those,

and I do not allow them to be freed,

then through the valley of sorrows and woes

I’ll always wallow, until I succeed:

That last withstanding hope, I follow still--

that foolish force that cannot be annulled;

that damning will, which drives us to fulfill

the perfect self we hide inside our skulls.

It’s him to whom I dedicate my will,

and hope to effloresce a daffodil.