IWTS No. 41

I was the sound of your dreams. You heard me first in your childhood, in the color green in the summer, when every morning the sun startled you awake. You next heard me in the spring some years later, when home was left behind and you looked ahead toward unknowns larger than any you’d previously faced; and yet you took comfort in my promises. When next was I your dreams a voice in your ear? I was there on several occasion, but you rarely heard me. I became muffled by false dreams and false projections and false paths you tread. I became nothing but a memory, something sentimental heard long ago and possibly imagined. Forgive those who forgets me, for perhaps there is no greater pain than to hear me and know I am no closer than when a toddler. Forgive them, for regret and failure are ferocious ideas not easily shaken. Keep hope, for I come sometimes to the most deaf in the nick of time, and my sound can be like dynamite beneath the sleeping.