Graveyard of Dreams
The lonely traveller wandered along a rocky road,
With nothing on him but a few pennies and half a loaf.
For days he had travelled, with his feet sore,
And his shoulders bent with a heavy load.
What, I asked, was in the large sack?
He turned to me, with eyes that gleamed with hope,
His withered hands, struggled to lift the load,
And he sat down and let the tale unfold,
'I was a lad, just like you, ' he began,
'With a promised horizon of golden sands.
I too like you dreamt of an impalpable light,
The light, I wished to release into the world of night,
But I changed; from the lad I was, I became the man I am,
Years have killed my enthusiasm.
I have become a shell of what I was,
With a baggage of dreams I have to let go off.
So here I am searching for a proper burial,
For the dreams that made my youth feel real.'
I understood the man and pointed to the east,
'There, ' I said, 'is the graveyard of dreams, '
'Where travellers who have lost their childhood purpose,
To the stage of responsibilities and a shifted focus,
Go to abandon their dreams.'
The traveller then picked up his bag, and looked back for a reason to stop,
But when his searching eyes gave in to reason, he walked on;
After an hour, thunder and lightning hit the forest green,
And the world mourned the death of a dream.
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Comments about this poem (Graveyard of Dreams by Rebekah Daniel )
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Edgar Allan Poe
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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