Dreams, whether enshrined or entombed,
are still restrained in their gilded cages
like trapped nightingales with songs unsung.
Flitting madly from perch to perch
in haphazardly synchronized bounds,
they hurl themselves against bars of doubt.
If I open that gilded door,
will my hopes freely soar in a peaceful state
or scurry away, forever lost?
Would ego then get the better of me,
changing my dreams into aspirations
of grandeur and pompous circumstance?
By planting my own seeds of doubt
I walk the beaten path like so many,
with my mind lost to a quandary.