If dreams are meant to be
A sign of the future,
Then what does it mean,
When one continues to dream;
To fall into that place between sleeping and waking,
Where they see
All the things they could have ever wanted,

There, within reach?
If dreams are hopes for the future, tucked away,
What becomes of those that turn real?
The butterfly flaps its wings in concrete jungles made in places where
Dreams become reality much easier than they do, here,
Where gray skies match the steel that's built this city,
A force to be reckoned with, perhaps.

But no more than the expectations set forth,
Invisible, but still there.
A guideline of sorts, perhaps,
To tell the child where he ought to be,
If anywhere at all.
He thinks, watching from benches that only get shorter every day,
That if he was meant to be nowhere,

He would be.
But this is not nowhere:
And certainly not the empty space he sees some nights,
When doubts take over and he believes that this place,
This city made of metal
Is where he belongs.