We bleed and lie down, for all
But our own dreams, no cleft
Left for our broken hearts
For us to point to a start
Of pain, and anguish kept 
To mark the first stalling fall
Lest we publicly outcry.

What is left is even my 
Lack of dreams that led
Me here; to nowhere, a place
Without ambitions to lace
With treats which are said
To send our souls to high
dreams with lofty imagination.

Where we lose the placation
With which we accept the reality
That we are no-one's, pointless
To think or dream; caresses
We miss of supportive family
Which gave rise to faulty
Hopes of completion of a dream.

Real dreams are built with keen
Eyes and work unseen, driven
By men who know dreams are
Built, not by other hopes, far
Loftier; but by work given
To lend from the mean
Reality that works against them.

Their completion marks a totem
To those whose dreams are still
Just figments, and whose ambitions
Still lack the force to drive nations
But want a spontaneous fill
Of their dreams as might a mere poem
Fulfill their wants and desires.

We must warn these new arrivers
That their desires are still cast 
In the shadows of their mind,
They must toil for the way to find
Their dreams hoisted up on a mast
As a totem to be an assuror
Of dreams still in the dark.