The Dream - a poem in blank verse

How soft the dream in its becoming sigh,

a breath so slight its life was hard to see,

its darkness such as only night could form,

awaiting such new hope as day might bring.

The dream was small, its whisper just begun,

as when, cocooned in larval state, a moth

will struggle from the confines of its cell,

and spread its velvet wings to catch the glow

of moonlight spilt from ragged, winter veils.

Upon this journey, too, the dream would drift,

its wings unfurl, and waft into the air,

in search of truth, elusive as a ghost.

When high above a town, the moth soon met

his nemesis, a burning candlestick

that beckoned from an artist's attic space,

attracting him. Its snake-like flicker fell

upon an open casement's glinting glass

and mesmerized his mind, so in he flew

around the flame, that tempting promised land

that many seek when spilling stylus words,

intent upon impressing wax-filled ears.

In seeking truth, he came too close and died.

The artist paused to dip his brush in oil

while musing on the miracle of flight

and how to catch its essence in a line,

a vibrant shape, a blur of beating blades.

He turned to see the moth in melted wax,

like Icarus who ventured near the sun

and perished in the heat of his desire,

and yet, surviving death, a peacock's eye

regarded him from its dismembered wing,

a glint of hope that struggled to survive.

Inspired, he caught its spirit in the 'plane

that soared across the canvas of his work

for all the world to see in time, on show.

It chanced a boy walked by and paused awhile,

enraptured when he saw the artist's flight.

This was his dream; he clutched it near his heart

and took it home. In fear lest it escape,

he tied his captive down with loving care,

entailed upon a kite he sometimes launched,

but dreams are light and apt to drift away

with paper shapes that float against the wind,

unless they're firmly held. He tethered it

with silken thread to let it play, constrained

within the limits of his childish whim.

He fed it out, but only cautiously

before he reeled it in again, once more

to languish in his bedroom box of toys.

The dream lay still and waited for the hour

when it would freely fly. What joy it was

when, one fine day at last it soared

and chased a wayward wind. The boy ran too.

He strained against the string, and almost left

the ground that tethered him. With sudden sweeps

and dives, at length the fragile kite broke loose

and snapped the thread that bound it to the child.

It whirled and spun and tore itself to shreds,

as people do when zeal outruns intent.

The boy, bereft, began to climb the branch

to rescue remnants of his broken kite.

Just then a passing jay of vivid blue,

attracted by the ribboned tail that swung,

as does the fisher's fly on swirling pool,

alighted, snatched the prize with gleeful cry

and flew to line his nest with bunting, gay

as any found at fairs throughout the land,

then perched, to dream the flight of fledglings three.

The boy, amazed by beauty of the bird,

forgot his loss and dreamt he too might soar

in search of skies beyond the height of clouds,

for dreams don't die, although at times they pause

to seek expression through another mind.