Finally it will not matter
how many kicked, how many kissed him—
how many rooms there were, how many rumors—
how many poisons were offered, or prizes—
how many salvos, how many silences.
It will mean nothing, nothing at all
whether anthologies nested his poems—
whether a critic called them bright birds—
whether they soared across heaven-smooth pages—
whether slumberers leapt at the tune.
Nothing will matter, nothing at all
except that his heart maintained its own beat,
his face its own hue, his foot its own thud,
his night its own vision, his soul its won heat,
his hand its own touch, his tongue its own word.
This will be all, on the day of days.
But meanwhile, what is a man to do—
a man, like everyone, flesh and blood?
How many times can he say to himself:
Hush, fool, hush! it will not matter,
not matter at all, not matter at all . . .
How far can a person go to fulfill the dream’s of someone else?
Read Dream’s Sake to find out. Click on the picture for reviews and free preview of the novel