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Poetry: Dreams are . . .

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Bottle of Dreams.

Dreams are like a bottle.
We're born with a pristine vessel clutched in infant hands. With eyes that can not see, we wait.
Into the world we're cast, to land on unsteady feet.
As time goes by and we grow on, a pristine vessel fills and cracks.
Some dreams are spilled along the way, leaving us grasping a lacy cloth, stained with ill gotten hope.
While others remain, clinging to the sides with no faults.
Over time we misplace our bottle , setting it high on a shelf, overlooking our downtrodden heads.
Like an unswaying sentinel it waits, watching over it's misguided master.
In what time, do the grown children stumble across their misplaced bottles?
In surprise wiping the dust from spidery glass, remembering.

Learn more about this author, Isadora Pandora.
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