memories and dreams

This place is dead.  We live on memories.
We’re islands in our characters. Alone,
We’ll never reach across. We will not seize
The chances that build up; though once we’ve grown
To know the crossing points, that are quite plain
To see, then any isle can be conjoined,
Despite the snide opinions that would gain
Some foothold on the barriers they’d build
To stop the ebb of tides, that could well flow
To form coastline connections – when we’re filled
With hope that, on each archipelago,
We’ll create expectation and revive
Those dreams come true – so this place is alive.