Could it be? In reality as in dreams?

That we could fly without wings?

In younger years with thoughts pulling at seams

Infinite possibilites and no attached strings.

Yet time is a demon, with reality

At it's side. Bring realizations and false

Pride. We want for nothing, save brief fantasy,

Yet too afraid to venture new ground or waltz.

The killing of dreams via growing older.

The dreams that come and remain

We must treasure, we must let smolder

In hearts and their honesty we must retain.

For who can state with conviction

That dreams are for the children?

That they are an unrealistic fiction?

Dreams live on in minds, their safe haven.