Walkabout With One's Self

From a mountain top I dream beyond the horizon,

there, where a world not unlike me exists,

there, where minds drift in concert, but not in forfeit of self.

Such a place seems real,

such a place dreams in others,

such a place lives in me.

Why from this mountain top does it seem so far?

So beyond grasp, beyond more than a dream?

Beyond a lifetime’s journey.

I am about to wander down from this mountain top and journey a road in search of that beyond-horizon-place of shared hopes and imaginings.

That road, traveled in stretches and segments all my life, now feels unknown,

a path of great mystery, filled with fear and emptiness.

I have months yet to think of wandering, of perambulating, of walking in reality’s shadow.

So for now that beyond-horizon-place is just that—a mental mirage.

It hasn’t filled a void or crushed a dream or sung a song of hope.

There remains a child in me searching for magic unseen,

a child wanting to touch a special dream.

A dream like that of no other, a dream that lives over the horizon and knows a possibility that we all claim to cherish, but fail to set free.

A child remains a child as long as he sits upon the mountain top,

a safe place to dream.

With trepidation I takes his first steps, knowing that day will lead to day and he will never return.

Only if across that new horizon there should be a new mountain top to climb will there be a chance to dream again,

and a child be once more.