Changing clouds of thoughts as ocean's pounding surf clashes with lonely, forgotten shores.

I'm just a dreamer, nothing more, so carry me softly away on summer breeze.

Lost and lightheaded as the wind lifts my soul aloft into the heavens, rising higher and higher into blue skies toward stars, then back.

We all come home someday, but I would be the richest man alive if I were only paid just for being a dreamer of dreams—nothing less, nothing more.

© John Fitzgerald III, 1981.