They say only the foolish man dreams

I say only the foolish man doesn’t

Dreams aren’t as complex as they’d have you believe

Dreams are really nothing more

Then each person’s envisioned reality

Dreams are real; it’s reality that’s a dream

Dreams—they makes us fight, they make us love

They make us see, how we should aspire

To be all the things we wish to be

Give a man a job and he’ll work himself to death

But give a man a dream and that’s his stairway to greatness

Dreams are slippery little things; tenuous, circuitous

Sometimes callow, amorphous

Some vitriolic, some bombastic

Maybe ever-present

Perhaps always fleeting

But dreams are intrinsic to our very being

They permeate your brain, like a steadily growing tumor

And seep into your heart, like a sickly sweet poison

They shape our very lives,

Transcend all petty strife

They shape our very world

Wrapping its tendrils round us all

For dreams need us too

Lest they shrivel up and die, or be locked up and forgotten

I believe they’re our equals

We’re counterparts it may seem

So they say “Lord give me strength”

I say Lord give me a dream