dreams we once had

don’t give up on the fugitive

we need him

though we don’t know it

for without him

we would never know the meaning of moving on

 

may the refugee in our hearts

keep breaking camp

may we hear him when we clatter

when we clumsily trip and stumble

over his hastily discarded pots and pans

recepticals

now cold and stained

filled with half eaten meals

leftovers of dreams we once had

 

to feel his hunger

the burning pangs of a restless heart

is a gift from God