Passion is a thing of dreams.

The thing that drives to new homes;

Here, wild things always roam,

Where the wild belongs.

It seems only right to dream

Beyond all boundaries,

Beyond death, danger,

Even fear.

Sometimes, it may seem,

All one can do is dream.

To dream is to conjure a masterpiece,

To set a grand Imagination free,

To let her run and live and be.

Give her a passion to hold,

And she will set free your own

Torn and tattered heart to go,

To leap and love and always know

The truth in a dream.

The truth is of our very selves,

All too often left on shelves,

Left to gather the dust of time,

To be smothered by the pantomime,

Deemed by logic to be a fruitless climb,

To Nowhere.

Is it true that dreams will never lead

Their dreamers to be wholly freed?

Might reality stem from such a seed

As a mere passion-fed dream?

Surely, that could never be.