Secret-Midnight-Garden

Echoes from memories long since made    
plague my nightly dreamscapes.    
I fly, perhaps subliminally making my escape  
but something inevitably knocks me down.    
Some memories act as gravity, I suppose.  
They keep me grounded,
reminding me of the road back home.    
Ideas, however, loosen the roots that cling to my ankles,  
and place a wind underneath my dusty wings.  
I allow the whispering wind to carry me away, 
to a place of promise, ambition, and optimistic ideals.  
I often wander the wonders of Neverland, 
but by morning    
my running feet fall out from under me,  
and I awaken in sweat covered sheets,
when the echoes of memories, long since made,  
remind me the lessons of gravity.  
If you fly-you fall, 
and down will come baby,    
dreams and all.
It's an alarm calling me to come back home.  
Whispers and echoes feed my soul,
Painting, planting, plaguing my dreamscape strolls.  
My memories are perineal blossoms,    
while my ideas are that of windflowers.  
Welcome to my secret-midnight-garden.