The Graveyard of Dreams

Today we went on a trip to a place.

Where dreams come to die when they’re not worth the chase.

By ‘we’ I meant I and a younger version of me,

One soul at 2 points in time,  and yet only one of us is truly free.

When I approached the room where I kept him safe,

I found him sitting inside with a serious look on his face.

“Whatever is the matter, little one?” I asked in concern,

“You're late for our trip” he replied, looking a bit stern.

“I'm sorry, let's go then,” I said, as I closed the door behind me.

“Not inside here” he said, eyes filled with plea.

I could not risk him getting hurt outside,

The world is too dangerous for a child without a guide.

“Can’t we play inside?” I asked hopefully.

“But then we’d miss the firecrackers”, he replied woefully.

Seeing him in need, I confess moved me to reconsider,

And soon we were on our way to all that glitters.

With him safely on my back, he pointed the way,

To the place where he so badly wanted to play.

“There it is!” he cried, jumping off my back,

As my eyes fell upon a junkyard off the beaten track.

Before I could stop him, he ran into the yard,

Forcing me to run after him before he got too far.

As I was near him, my leg got caught in something on the ground,

Which threw me to the mud, as if my feet were bound.

Looking down, I was shocked to find a new Stethoscope, covered with dirt,

A strange thing to see in a scrapyard with goods of low worth.

“Doctor - 1996 to 2001” was engraved on the side,

The medically licensed infant clearly gave its best and died.

While getting up, my hand fell upon a brass object,

It was a Saxophone in excellent shape, the victim of an abandoned project.

“Jazz Musician - 2017 to 2020”, another strange engraving,

These talented babies were clearly diaper prodigies before they started shaving.

As I got up, my eyes took in my environment,

Filling me with shock, at the plot development.

Every inch of this yard was littered with not scrap, but objects of high value.

The very instruments and tools of the talented, yet here they lie without hope of rescue.

“Where the heck am I?”, I muttered in confusion,

“We’re in the graveyard of dreams”, came a voice with the solution.

Turning around I saw a man shrouded in a large robe,

Looking at me with kind eyes that bore into my very Soul.

“Are you here for ideas or to steal a dream?” he asked in suspicion.

“A child led me here for fireworks,” I said, my voice filled with confusion.

Breaking into a smile, he asked if I’d like a tour,

Although I wanted to look for little me, I was drawn in by this place’s lure.

Over the next hour, we wandered through the many piles of abandoned projects,

Violins, Running shoes, Military uniforms and more, all with epitaphs of forgone prospects.

Ballet Shoes, Cooking Knives, Surgical gloves and Rock Climbing gear,

One date to birth them and the other marking their arrival here.

This was no scrapyard, but a testament to the lost potential of man,

Ever the fickle beings, with promises and vows amounting to trash.

Feeling nauseous, I asked if I could find little Me and leave this place,

For I feared what of mine I may find here to haunt the rest of my days.

“What did he mean by fireworks?” I mumbled out loud in curiosity,

“Ahhh, the celebratory sign of a dream resurrected, where its fulfilment becomes a possibility.

Yet, we have not seen fireworks in here for quite a while,” said the Keeper of this yard.

“Just dreams divorced from their creator, because ambition rarely reaches the sky, much less the stars”.

“But not all dreams are marred by lethargic inconsistency”, he spoke in a quiet tone,

“For some souls are too broken to walk the road to greatness alone.”

He pointed out a grand piano that had stood by its owner for 16 years,

Until the death of his partner brought along a grief whose melody couldn’t reach human ears.

He took me to a hockey stick of a child, that was used in championships to direct many a puck,

Until her parents’ divorce took away her favourite audience, and hockey was replaced by the gateway drug.

My chest grew heavy as I pondered upon the responsibility and burden of carrying a dream,

And then I heard the whispers of poetry, begging me to write about the things I have seen.

"I need a pen and a book”, I said with conviction,

He knew just where I could find one to be put into commission.

As he led me, I suddenly spotted Little Me, crouched on the ground,

And ran to him, filled with joy that he had been found.

He looked up at me and showed me what he was looking at,

Before I could comment, the keeper of the yard exclaimed, “He found what you lacked!”

A familiar diary lay on a rock, with a blue Parker pen to match,

Its epitaph began in 2019, with no retirement date attached.

As I picked it up, its weight felt strangely familiar in my hand,

Like a ring made for my finger, or a dream that only I could have.

Grabbing the arm of Younger Me, I thanked the Keeper and made my way to the exit,

For inspiration was getting stronger by the minute, and Little Me’s thirst for exploring appeared bested.

As I picked him up and put him over my shoulder for the journey back,

I looked back at the yard and saw the Keeper disappear into his little Shack.

With my back to the Yard, I began to retrace my steps to our room,

Until I heard a sleepy, small voice say,” Look at the fireworks going to the moon”.

Whipping around, I saw big, red rockets, racing through the sky,

Casting its bright light on every dream in that yard that came to die.

At the gate of the yard, I saw the Keeper holding a lit match, wearing a smile,

I knew at that moment, that some dreams may die, but I got this one for a while.

We sat a while, and watched the fireworks light up the darkness of this night,

Red, green and yellow, the shades of hope that I weave into what I write.

When the fireworks stopped, I smiled at the Keeper with a look of gratitude,

For putting a smile on both of our faces with an act of great magnitude.

And as he waved to me, I caught sight of a gaping hole in his wrist,

Who am I to have beheld the face of royalty, and lived to share this twist?

This is therefore the story of the Keeper of the Graveyard of Dreams,

A child who loves fireworks and a yard that is not what it seems.