Dreamland

November 27, 2009
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I’ve never felt the desert,
But I’ve heard of skies and sand tinted red.
Long ago I dubbed it a Dreamland.
I deemed it was all in my head.
My body ground down with the vision
Of a torpid hellion mounted out west.
I was caught by a dreamland that I hardly could see,
Layered indifferently—apathetic at best.

Those who I told watched me with quite a sickly lost tire.
They knew the vast west as abnormally, insurmountably dire.
And I, their first tumbleweed that was ever to bluster,
Picked up on all the baggage a few sticks could muster.
The color of sand blended in with desire.
The west’s vertigo had my demands reaching higher.

I’m a dreamer for Dreamland.
It’s where I belong.
I’ll bounce in on a current,
And then I’ll feel that I’m wrong.
And I’ll continue to hear stories of where I ought to be,
And I’ll wrap myself tight before the wind carries me.

Oh, what a dream for a dreamer as daring as I.
How daring, a Dreamland I tumble on by.





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