Dreams Poem by Christian Thomas Scott

Words are but a shallow well,
With strength to delve within their source
Of power, in the heart and tongue, and long continuations.
Removing logic from the mind,
And blowing like a windless day
In the stormy calm of golden night,
On the clouds of clearest day.
Too sure are we, of truth and that,
Which born on air we grow accustomed to.
Yet when we sit in silence,
For a long and blessed time,
The rhythm of our breathing,
It must be broken at once.
Or else grow pale and cold
From lack of action which as solid
Builds up more potential
Growth. And strokes of patterns on the wall.
Yet every day the hope
Is dying to be kicked out and away.
And to the dream we shall return,
Fragmented lies declare the truth.
Oh, this is no
Reality!