I wanted to start a “Hot Beverage Shop”
In Australia, just a dream I had seeing everyone
With a running nose or a bout of influenza
I did not want to stock up Tamiflu
Only to have a coffee shop
For the sickness prone.
And a dream is just that. It’s a thought spindle
You go around in. It’s the hula hoop circling around your temple.
It doesn’t have rocket boosters, nor sinews and wings, nor does
It give you a launching pad. It’s like dreams are meant
To be gimmicks. A label in an advertisement
Meant only for 1% of the population.
I look at all the dreams I’ve lost.
How my career in science or humanitarian agriculture
Was sabotaged by the devils in disguise
How my dream of marrying a virgin went up in thin smoke
And still my wife’s 10 times with another man
Sucks me up like a black hole.
I’m the poster child of lost dreams, a boy
Who had castles in the heart and draw bridges
Open, now looking at an empty fallow field
Where nothing grows.
And I only have my words now. A little dream
Of making it somewhere with crafted words.
After all everything else is a wreck on the ocean floor.
And words are the seaweed which floats
With the tide, and fluoresces with tiny dinoflagelletes
And I ask only for an island in the sun
With a little gold on the side.
I will never be Midas – I’m 40 years old now.
I just want to be a nugget collector
Scraping together little lumps of gold.
To coronate my own legacy.