The dreams of a poet are wasted on a monetary world
No one understands the needs that money cannot buy
The heart of any one of us is all it takes to try
Buy me a wing upon the wind and fly me to the moon
Take me on a midnight ride into an empty room
And lay beside me ’til my eyes no longer rain
The dreams of a man with nothing else to reason for
Become the chains that binds the hands just outside the door
That opens to the place where he would search no more
Give to him a simple life with no gold upon his strife
Remove the bindings greed has placed upon his simple means
And he will write the songs that help us through this life
The words of the poet are wasted on a hurried world
No one has the time to stop and hear the prose
Nor let the verse into the heart it would take to try
The poets – the prophets – the mis-stepped rhythm makers
Are all risen upon the pole to be seen and not heard
Or placed in the locked white rooms with down filled walls
Give nothing to the poet that is not purely yours
And of no value to any that does not know that it is
Nor let a hand be laid to hold any other way but gentle
Give only that which was the gift of the gods to the mortal
Not fire or of fire except of passion, nor gold that is not light
And hear the rustling wind that will help you pass this life
(“The Dreams Of” by Tim D. Coulter Sr.)