Something’s are new one day, old the next.Something’s are worth the impulse,
something’s, impulse is still too late.
Others take their time, like some fine wine,
but the vine better be great.
Then there are those, the ones made of dreams.
These, sometimes come instantly, other times, take eternity.
It’s these dreams that travel lone roads,
weary upon their feet, hand toiled long beyond energy.
These are the best yet when light leaves the day, dark and dearie
that’s when the spark blinks, suddenly a beacon.
Hold steady, hold steady. It’s a long way yet indeed.