I put my dream into a box
And carefully locked it away.
I buried it in a garden deep inside,
And for a while that’s where it’s stayed.
The key hangs stiffly off a rib
Somewhere near my heart,
But its silver’s grey with cobwebs,
Like some forgotten piece of art.
Miles away, the box of dreams,
Buried in the ground,
Used to inspire pretty flowers,
Which breathed their beauty all around.
I killed them,
Drowning them in negativity and doubt;
All that’s left is stale blank parchment
Suffering paradoxical drought.
And the lifelessness is spread around,
Creeping through papery veins,
By a heart that pumps dispassionately,
Like the body’s all that remains.
Fear stops me discovering
If lock and key still fit –
If I set that old dream free,
Could I nurture it?