Chronicle of Dreaming Man

Every morning,
he would row his boat
gently down the stream,
merrily,
thinking life is but a dream.

He was not concerned with how things worked,
but rather how they seem
inside his often broken heart,
and he would dream
and allow his thoughts
and tears
to carry him
past fears,
the troubled years
and the moments that played out like Cheers.

He would dream of love
so heavy and pure
that he was sure
it must exist,
he could not resist,
the feeling would persist,
insist,
his boat began to list
to one side,
and so he leaped
with his heart
and soul,
no end in sight,
no goal,
and he would dream.

The stars would twinkle,
the moon would dance
and the world felt quiet,
pregnant with hope,
dazzling landscapes in his mind,
spaceships bound for worlds unknown
and a love he could hold in his hand
as an old man
on a summer afternoon,
a fan
gently moving the breeze past his face,
nearly every trace
of childhood erased,
and he would dream
of the first time
he was not alone in that boat
on that stream
and how it felt to not have to dream.